


Yes, Chef!

by Morteamore



Series: The Cooking Chronicles [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Anal Sex, Bad Puns, Banter, Cooking, F/F, F/M, Food Porn, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Multiple Partners, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morteamore/pseuds/Morteamore
Summary: Fresh from one of the top culinary schools in the country, Rhys lands an internship atThe Diamond Pony, the heralded restaurant of both infamous and legendary chef 'Handsome' Jack Wolfbaine. But as his first day turns out less than stellar, Rhys isn't sure the cooking world is all it's cracked up to be, and starts to doubt his career choice or if he was ever built to handle it. Plus, turns out the Pony is now a washed up novelty from yesteryear with barely the ability to fill its dining room, its staff full of miscreants and over-inflated egos. When the reasons why become evident, Rhys bucks up and decides to stay on, making it his duty not only to pull the restaurant back into the spotlight, but to also impress the non-impressible Chef Jack.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: The Cooking Chronicles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162034
Comments: 81
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though some recipes described in this fic will be made up, the majority are pulled directly from either cookbooks or traditional recipes. Feel free to shoot me questions about them. 
> 
> There's also a ton of professional kitchen banter and behavior in this. The kitchen crew that rags on each other cares about each other, and I wanted to really capture that feel here. Sometimes it's on par with Gordon Ramsay levels, so fair warning if excessive swearing, insults, machismo, or vulgarity doesn't sound like a good time.

**Summer**

Having checked that he had the right address by glancing at the one he’d written down, then comparing it to the location the GPS in his cell phone was displaying, Rhys was sure he was standing before the right restaurant. In simple script, the type you’d blink once and overlook, the name was scrawled across an elegant black awning that extended a few feet from the front entrance on to the sidewalk.

 _The Diamond Pony_. 

It sounded like a child had named it. Or, maybe, like a parody of some fine art gallery nestled among the cozy art scene downtown. But the Pony was neither, merely a product of renowned chef Jack Wolfbaine’s ambitions to open a world famous restaurant. It had wrought that fame long ago, when its doors had first sprung wide for the enjoyment of the general public. Now, ten years later, you could simply waltz in on a Saturday night and get a table for four without even a reservation. It wasn’t _easy_ , per se. But it could be done. Unlike in its heyday, when the wait list to sample Jack’s culinary delights went back a whopping three to six months.

Still, when Rhys had applied for an internship here to finish out his required hours for certification from The Culinary Arts Southcoast Academy—or _The Casa_ , as students there called it—he hadn’t expected to be accepted. He was sure the restaurant saw its fair share of internship queries, and he hadn’t really met a single person he’d managed to network and hobknob with so far that had been granted internship at Jack Wolfbaine’s place. Why he’d been so lucky was a mystery to him. Perhaps the well really _was_ running that dry for the restaurant. He supposed he’d find out.

Entering the dimly lit front of house, gaze sweeping over the empty sea of tables, Rhys felt trepidation rise alarmingly fast. There was nobody posing as Maitre D’ to greet him, only a long, thick-bearded individual standing behind the bar. The bar itself was ornate in nature, dark oak polished smooth with a raw slab of unevenly cut obsidian acting as the bartop, making it look carved directly from the hide of a volcano. Dark eyes regarded him for some time as the man he could only assume was the bartender gently shook a stainless steel shaker. 

“Can I help you?” he finally asked, voice smooth with an edge of that hip, urban slickness, but also rather baritone. “You don’t look like you usually hang around places like this.”

From the sound of the comment, Rhys was pretty sure he was being insulted. That was to be expected, he supposed. It wasn’t like he exactly fit in among the ilk that could afford to dine at _The Diamond Pony_. That the bartender had to point out that glaring fact was…fine. He’d live with it.

“Er, no, I—you’re right, I don’t,” he answered, giving a nervous laugh and feeling immediately self conscious. “I’m…I’m Rhys. Rhys Alton. I’m supposed to be starting an internship here in the kitchen?”

The last bit coming out as a question made Rhys feel foolish. His cooking instructors had tried to get him to work on his self confidence, and in truth he’d put plenty of effort into it. Despite that fact, he still remained unable to feel the conviction of his words as often as he liked, and he loathed that it often made him feel weak and meager in a professional setting when he was anything but.

“I see,” the bartender answered. “Are you _sure_ you’re in the right place? We haven’t had any new internships here in, ah, years. Jack is a bit intense for the likes of fresh-faced culinary grads. He tends to—and don’t let this intimidate you—scare them off on purpose.” 

It was like a large pot of water slowly coming to a rolling boil, but Rhys was beginning to feel it; a creeping sense of dislike for the man behind the bar. He wasn’t sure if it was his words, or just his general demeanor. Something about him just did not sit well with Rhys.

“I’m not one not to take my chances,” he said, feeling his confidence flare at last in the face of his budding annoyance. “I figure if I can handle Jack Wolfbaine’s kitchen, then I can handle any in this whole goddam city when I finally complete my hours.”

There was the quirking of a brow from the bartender. He set his shaker down on the bartop and washed his hands off on a nearby dish towel. Then he was picking up a phone built into the bar wall.

“You’ve got a spine, kid, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Call me Vasquez. I’m head of bar staff here. I’ll let Mr. Blake know you’ve arrived.”

“If that’s the manager I spoke to, he should be expecting me.”

“Right.” 

The word was drawn out, as dry and brittle as bone when Vasquez spoke. Then he was speaking into the phone. A few minutes later, the kitchen door to the back of the restaurant swung open and a tall, thin man in a very stylish and posh woolen suit stepped out. His balding blond hair was combined in a strange style that reminded Rhys of wings, or even devil horns. Intimidating, to say the least, made even worse by how deadpan he spoke when he opened his mouth.

“Through the kitchen into the office with me please, Mr. Alton,” he said, and turned on his heel, beckoning Rhys to follow. “I do appreciate your punctuality.” 

“Do-do people not come in on time usually?” Rhys couldn’t help but ask, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He fell into step behind the other man.

“Define ‘usually’.” A sniff from Blake. “But no. Most, if not all, of our staff here understands the whys and hows of acting professionally. At least in the presence of the owner. There is that Calypso boy. Bit of an upstart, that one. But he puts in his efforts and hours as same as anyone else here.”

Having no idea who Blake was talking about, Rhys took the seat in front of the desk in the office, a plaque sitting upon the wooden top reading ‘Jeffrey Damien Blake’. The room was a cramped, organized space, efficient in both the way it used that space and how everything was situated. There was a laptop sitting dead center on the desk of which Blake sat down in front of, holding out a hand with long, thin fingers. From his own days having banged away on a piano during the lessons his parents had insisted he take as a child, Rhys recognized hands perfectly designed to belong to a piano virtuoso upon sight.

“Your resume, please, Mr. Alton.”

From his messenger bag, Rhys produced a manila folder that protected the document and handed it over. Without ceremony, Blake flipped it open, taking the sole piece of paper in hand.

“Ah, you’ve worked at Strongfork’s before,” he said after a few moments of reading. “Excellent start at a restaurant like that. Though I do have to question how such an amateur as yourself managed to pull that off.”

Cheeks flushing a deep red, Rhys coughed once into his hand. Though it was probably important to come clean with the truth to the place he’d be completing his internship at, Rhys didn’t feel ready to reveal that secret just yet. His expression was kept neutral as he cleared his throat.

“Ah, you know,” he began. “I just…I put in for a dish washing position during high school to make some extra money before college.” Not exactly a lie, but not the entire truth, either. “And—”

From outside the closed office door, there came an explosion of noise. Two voices going back and forth between each other, though they strangely sounded like a single persona arguing with himself. Their bickering was ascending like the swell of a jazz hook, drifting closer. Rhys couldn’t really make out the muffled words, but he thought he recognized ones like _salad_ and _busboy_.

Mr. Blake’s concentration had been broken, his gaze falling on the office door. His piano player fingers came up to rub at his temples, a long, deep sigh escaping him, though he sat as rigid as ever.

The door suddenly burst open.

And almost immediately, the conversation that had been happening beyond it became crystal clear. 

“I just can’t believe you gave that Troy kid salads,” a voice said, an edge to their tone so sharp it could have cut flesh had it been tangible. “The guy’s a perpetual deadbeat! He probably don’t even take his station seriously.”

“And you do?”

This voice was calmer, unburdened, albeit sounding all too similar, as if the same person was speaking. 

Unable to stave off his curiosity, Rhys turned in his seat and was surprised when his gaze fell upon two identical figures crowding into the office together. The first one to enter was shrugging out of a dark brown leather jacket, revealing a bright shirt beneath with the restaurant’s logo emblazoned above a breast pocket. The other wore a hoodie, a cartoon slice of pizza screen printed on its front with the name _Salvatore’s Pizza Bar_ scripted above it and a phone number beneath. It was a well known establishment, a staple of most downtown city folks’ diets, where some of the strangest alternative pizza creations and trends were often born. Unlike his near twin, this man’s dark chestnut hair was trimmed shorter, cut a bit more radical and less subjected to what looked like hair product. 

“I do!” he protested, the two apparently in the midst of an argument. “A lot more than some random hipster does. This is my family’s business.”

The man who could only be his twin brother snorted and hung his jacket up on the wooden hook of a standing coat rack. His hands went for a nearby cabinet that ran floor to almost ceiling, fitting a key into its lock and pulling it open.

“I think Troy is more hoodlum than hipster. And I _really_ don’t think you give a good goddam about _my_ restaurant.” The man reached inside the closet, yanked out a grey chef’s jacket. “Be honest, Timmy. You’re just sore I made you a busboy.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to be, Jack? Freakin’ happy about it?”

“Yup.” The ‘p’ was emphasized, the chef’s coat shrugged on an arm at a time. With hands that Rhys could now see were large enough to question their culinary delicateness and calloused from kitchen life, Jack tugged at the collar and lapels, straightening them but didn’t button up. “You’re not really cut out for life in a professional kitchen. Especially mine. You should be happy for every opportunity I’ve given you here, and be lucky you’re not currently stuck on some unemployment line outside City Hall.”

“What? A-are you threatening me?”

“There may not be many rules in my kitchen, but you’re so obviously forgetting the most fundamental one.” 

Stepping back up to his brother, Jack only stopped when there was a hair’s breadth between them, so close they were almost touching. With so little distance between them, it was easy to notice the minor details that differentiated them from each other. The more prominent lines on Jack’s face, the bags under his eyes; the slight shine of smooth skin on his face that looked like he might have had some kind of burn or scar once and had endured reconstructive surgery. 

Then there were the differences in Tim’s form, his slighter, leaner, more sculpted build. 

When Jack’s words came, they had dipped several octaves in tone, so frigid even Rhys had to suppress a shiver. 

“You do anything to bring down the legendary Handsome Jack’s kitchen, sully the name of this fine establishment, sabotage us in _any_ goddam way, then I’ll make sure you’re blacklisted from restaurant employment for the rest of your days.”

There was no backtalk from Tim, barely any movement other than the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed thickly. When his mouth finally opened, the words stuck for a moment, as if physically barricaded. Then they were pouring out in a rush.

“You don’t need to worry about anyone here doing that,” Tim told him, somehow managing to keep his words even. “You already do it on your own enough, asshole.”

Taking the comment in stride, Jack clucked his tongue, shook his head. “Language, Tim.”

“Like you don’t got a mouth like a cesspool. _Especially_ when you’re working.”

“Do as I say, little bro. _Not_ as I do.”

On those final words, Jack’s face broke out into a brilliant grin, pearly teeth bared like a wolf ready to sink them into its prey’s throat. He brushed past Tim, heading for the door, which had been left propped open. At the threshold, he turned back around, looking past his brother, eyes falling on Rhys, who was still blatantly staring. Realizing that fact, Rhys spun back around, folding his hands in his lap and hoping that the man didn’t address him.

“Hey, Jimmy, that the new intern we’re supposed to be getting in the kitchen?” he asked, gesturing with his chin at where Rhys was seated.

“It’s Jeffrey, sir,” Mr. Blake corrected in a deadpan. “And yes. I was just conducting the initiation process before you and your brother walked in and joined us.”

With a wide wave of his hand, Jack nearly hit Tim as he dismissed the comment.

“Try and wrap that up sooner than later. Then send him on in. There’s a lot I wanna go over with the kid today. I won’t get to any of it if you sit there flapping your dumdum words at each other all morning. So, chop chop.” A snicker escaped the man. “Get it? Cos, we work in a kitchen and—ya know what, forget it. I’ll be seein’ one of you real soon.”

The office door slammed as Jack pulled it closed behind him, framed certificates on the wall rattling with the impact. Still standing there, Tim stuck up both middle fingers, thrusting them out as if he could bring down an invisible wrath on his brother with just those gestures.

On Mr. Blake’s desk, the sound of a stack of papers striking its surface as the man tapped them to straighten them out was like gunshot. 

“You heard the words of Mr. Wolfbaine,” the man said in his cold, detached manner. “There’s no reason to conduct the rest of our conversation. Consider yourself officially indoctrinated into _The Diamond Pony_ ’s staff. Congratulations. You’re to start immediately in the position of chef de partie, working with Athena. Sous chef Zane is usually in charge, but, since Jack showed up today, he’ll be conducting your initial training. We do not supply chef’s attire, so you’ll have to procure your own.”

“But I didn’t bring my own?” Rhys said, his sudden lack of confidence in the face of the spat between apparently _Jack Wolfbaine_ himself and his brother rearing. “I mean, I have chef’s whites. At home. I just didn’t think you’d be throwing me in the kitchen on my first day.” 

“You unfortunately thought wrong. I advise you not to make the same mistake twice. Jack Wolfbaine runs a _very_ professional kitchen here and despises inadequacy among those under his employ. May you bare that in mind from now on. Good day, Rhys.”

Seeing that as his official dismissal, Rhys rose from his chair, surprised to see Timothy still standing in the office when he turned around. The man was rubbing at his face with both hands, head slightly bent, brow pinched as if in pain. When he opened his eyes, he nodded at Rhys as if they were two brothers in arms facing down a clever and powerful enemy force.

Not knowing what else to do in that moment, Rhys simply nodded back in forced camaraderie, exiting the office without a sound.

XXX

The first thing Rhys did upon stepping into the kitchen was roll up his sleeves. That morning he’d dressed moderately but not much for the weather. It was the middle of June, the city already blistering with heat in the early summer. Like any average restaurant kitchen, even without the ovens fired up it was warmer than what could be deemed comfortable. The thin but long-sleeved black button down he’d selected was far from practical. Though he supposed it beat wearing chef’s whites for now.

In the time it had taken for Mr. Blake to speak to him, two older gentleman had shown up and were now occupying the spaces between the kitchen equipment, concentrating on whatever tasks lay in store for them. They paid no mind to Rhys, either not having noticed him yet or blatantly ignoring his presence. With his experience in restaurant kitchens, it really could be either. Jack himself was not among their ilk, apparently having disappeared somewhere in the time span since they’d met. If he were to guess, Rhys would say a walk-in freezer or the basement, but he knew nothing of Jack’s habits yet. By the end of the week, that would probably be remedied. For now, he was simply banking on where _he’d_ be if he were the restaurant’s owner.

To his surprise, one of the men—one with spiked white-blond hair and the coolest mutton chops Rhys had ever bared witness to—finished whatever he’d been doing and turned to address him.

“Ah, so yer the new boyo, eh?” he remarked in a thick Irish brogue. “Chef de partie, wassit? Yeah, don’t envy you a bit, working under Athena. Bean’s a right savage cook alright. But she can also be real minus craic. You’ll hafta watch yer arse.”

“Was any of that…?” Rhys’ lips clamped shut as he trailed off, his mind catching up with what he’d been about to ask. He had the decency to feel sheepish. “I’m sorry. You know, I only just moved to the city recently. It’s been a bit of a culture shock. I didn’t mean that.”

“Course yer feckin’ meant it or ya wouldn’t have blurted it.” Stepping around a slick metal counter, the man leaned back against it, gaze steadying on Rhys as he crossed his arms over his chest. It was then that Rhys noticed he was wearing some kind of device over his left eye that didn’t quite look like your typical eye patch. “And to answer yer question, yah. Probably more bloody English than the language runnin’ from _your_ gob.” A hearty chuckle, which managed to sever the rising tension between them. “Name’s Zane Flynt, second under Jack himself. You’ll be shadowing me, least until the rest of the crew shows up.”

Taking the hand that was thrust before him to shake, Rhys realized that it was knobbed with vein and bone, thick scars adorning it. Likely the product of long hours of manual labor in the kitchen and the bites of well honed blades; marks of the dragon as well. Rhys himself had a few of those where he’d involuntarily wrestled with the likes of the hot stove.

“Rhys Alton,” he supplied. “Intern extraordinaire.” 

“Brilliant. Alton, though? Sure I’ve heard that surname before.”

“Really?” Trying not to show how much the statement made him uneasy, Rhys forced himself not to fidget in place. “Can’t imagine why. My family’s not exactly famous.”

“Sure it’ll come to me noggin’ sooner or later. Anyway, that yoke over there’s Wilhelm.” Zane jabbed his hand behind him at the absolute mountain of a man currently working on what looked like dough in a bowl, his thick fists pounding at its hide. He looked up from his task at the mention of his name, nodded without stopping. “Wouldn’t advise trying to chat him up. Not much for words, that one.”

Not wanting to be more impolite than he’d already managed to be, Rhys nodded back.

“Let’s get ya an apron before bossman gets back. Since yer tryin’ to one up The Naked Chef here.”

“I wasn’t really told I needed my chef gear today.”

“Sure look. But let that be one of yer only mistakes of that kinda caliber. Otherwise Jack’ll eat the head off yer.”

Threading the strings of the black apron that blended in with his clothing, Rhys tied them off just as Jack came from a narrow hallway off the kitchen Rhys hadn’t been down yet. There were some doors along it that he could make out, which probably led to the staff bathroom, walk-in, and outside, if he could guess. The head chef had a glint to his eyes that he hadn’t when Rhys had first seen him, their shine sickly and bright, pupils reduced to pinpoints. His footsteps were swift, movements jerky. Nobody seemed phased by his state, so maybe this was just how he was in his kitchen, bursting with barely unleashed energy and ready to tear the culinary world a new one. 

Rumors about chef Jack Wolfbaine were wild and inconsistent, ranging from word that he was truly a mad genius when it came to food preparation to that he was a whirling conglomerate of ego, arrogance, and narcissism, so much that he was near impossible to work with. Most everyone at The Casa had been terrified to even attempt to train under him over the years, so word had went, and at this point in time, having been a restaurateur for over a decade, he’d faded from popularity enough that culinary graduates preferred to aim for the glamorous, more up-and-coming fish to spend their internships with.

That wasn’t as appealing to Rhys as it was his colleagues. He’d come from a line of very old school, stalwart chefs, and the cookbooks and appearances of the infamous chef Jack Wolfbaine had been a staple of his upbringing. To say he admired the man was somewhat of an understatement, though his infatuation had settled down some in his later years.

Still, it was surreal being in the man’s kitchen as a worker, so much it really hadn’t hit him yet. He was still processing the fact, managing to keep himself in check.

A loud bang caused Rhys to jump, pulling him out of his revelry. He turned on his heel, Jack standing at the other end of the counter, palms flat against the reflective metal surface. Grin manic, teeth perfectly white and straight (as any celebrity chef’s would be), he was gazing at Rhys as if he were a piece of prime rib ripe for the slicing.

“So, you’re probably expecting a pretty formal introduction to my kitchen, eh, kid?” he said, the words almost accusatory. “I’ll tell ya right now: you won’t be getting that from me. Ask someone else for it.”

Not knowing if he was supposed to respond or not, Rhys side-eyed both Zane and Wilhelm, but neither looked like they were about to come to his rescue. Wilhelm was wrapping wads of dough in plastic wrap and Zane was fiddling with a large pot he’d put on the burner, array of ingredients spread out before him. When Rhys looked over at Jack again, the chef de cuisine was setting some industrial grade bowls out.

“I expect you to know some shit. Because I _also_ ain’t here to train you. At least not from scratch. I’ll give you a pointer if I have to, sure. Ya gotta prove you deserve it first, though.”

“Erm, okay,” Rhys said, finding his voice.

All eyes present in the kitchen were suddenly on him. Rhys could feel it without even glancing around to prove it to himself. One hand going to back of his neck, he rubbed at the top of his spine, the skin clammy to the touch.

“Okay, _chef_ , I meant to say,” he supplied, remembering his lessons in kitchen etiquette from his culinary classes.

“I was about to ask what the fuck kind of bullshit are they teaching at The Casa these days.” Setting to pulling out utensils, Rhys noticed Jack hadn’t bothered buttoning up his chef’s coat yet, if he was ever going to. That struck him as candidly hypocritical, considering the man had just been lamenting about kitchen practices. “Is that a goddam glove you got on your hand?”

Knowing the comment was aimed at him, Rhys raised his right hand to eye level. The skintight leather creaked and creased as he flexed his fingers like a newborn settling into the concept of voluntarily movement.

“I have a condition,” he said without much thought. “It’s not my dominant hand.”

“That so?” Even though he was clean-shaven, Jack stroked his chin and jawbone as if he’d had a beard. “I’d tell ya to take it off, but I _really_ don’t got the stomach to find out what’s under there today. Just don’t go stickin’ it in any of the goddam food. Things probably a fuckin’ bacteria magnet.”

“I think I can manage that, chef.”

“You fuckin’ better.” It seemed Jack had reached the end of his supply gathering, laying out the rest of what lay remained in his arms and gesturing toward the refrigerator that was tucked against one wall. “You’re on lunch duty, by the way.”

“I’m what?” 

Like a wild varmint that had darted into traffic unknowingly, Rhys’ mind was seized by turmoil. It refused to feed him a viable reply. There was an exasperated noise from Jack, whose gaze had shifted into something barely hinged.

“You, with the hands your sky daddy gave you, are going to go in that fridge over there, assess what’s at your disposal, and make my crew lunch from it. Don’t try to get cute with it, either. The point ain’t to impress me, it’s to make sure we get enough rev in our engines. Got it, kiddo?”

Invisible sweat was creeping down Rhys’ brow, skin feeling like it was on fire. Not only was he at a loss with what he was hearing, but his nerves were fiery, twitching. There was no fallacies of what kind of kitchen he was walking into when he’d applied for the internship at _The Diamond Pony_. However, he’d been pretty sure that whatever lay in store for him, at least it would be professional, designed to better him and let him grow into his own as a chef.

This, however? This was blatant discardment, the equivalent of being told to go sit on the bench while the _real_ team showed off their skills for the crowd. Not even his real first day, and he was being told to go sit it out because he wasn’t professional enough to keep up.

Anger flared, furious and flushing him scarlet. Jack must have noticed something about his reaction, because he let out a braying laugh.

“What’s the matter there?” he asked, thick arms crossing over his chest. 

Rhys was drawn to the size of his hands once again, their skilled girth coming into consideration this time, his mind drifting to what they looked like manipulating plates of food into wonders of delicacy, making fine cuts in meats and vegetables. They were strange thoughts, and he flushed them away quickly. 

“Oh, you a culinary academy snob or something? Think you’re better than feeding your fellow chefs and that you deserve to feed the masses?” Jack had taken a step or two closer, his form imposing in its musculature. Wildly, Rhys mused that he probably didn’t even need to work out for a physique like that. Just slaving in a kitchen regularly was likely enough. “I got news for you, kiddo. This is _my_ fuckin’ kitchen. You don’t wanna respect what I assign you with, don’t wanna respect _me_ , then you take your ass out of here. I don’t got time for that crap.”

There was another enormous clatter. Both Jack and Rhys turned to see that Zane had slammed a cover down on to his pot.

“Oi, chef, cut the boyo some slack, for feck’s sake,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “First day, and he’s in Jack Wolfbaine’s kitchen. Can’t ya see he’s scared to shite?”

With a narrowing of his heterochromatic eyes, Jack fixed his sous chef with a long, silent stare. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, deprived of emotional attachment.

“Fine, fine, I see what’s going on here,” he said. “You think I don’t, but I do. But fine. You want it your way, Flynt, you can have it.” Spreading his arms wide, his voice rose. “Have my goddam kitchen for the day. Go forth and frolic in it as you see fit. Me, I’m going to go fuck off to my office, as you _so_ prefer me to do. Because you’re just so _jealous_ of my skill. And I just cramp your style when I’m here. Right? This isn’t my restaurant, it’s _yours_?”

At his station, Zane had gone still, his hands white-knuckling the counter where he was gripping it. There wasn’t even the slightest movement from him. At the station behind his, Wilhelm was dutifully ignoring the exchange. 

“Just do me a solid and make sure Rhys here don’t shirk his lunch duty.” A meaty finger prodded Rhys in the chest, causing pain to blossom. He was forced to bite his tongue. “That’d be great, ‘kay, thanks. And when you see that slacker-ass Troy, you send that little bitch my way.”

Before anyone could release the breath they seemed to be collectively holding, get even a word in, Jack sniffed audibly, scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. He hung there for a moment, as if confused about what he’d just been about to do. Then he was walking away, not even sparing anyone a backwards glance.

From behind him, Rhys heard Zane make a sound of relief.

“Must not have had enough of the schnoze candy this morning to feign his likin’ us,” the sous chef said. “Don’t worry about it, boyo. He’ll be bang on once that gimpy eejit shows up. Guarantee it.”

Not having had time to properly sort out his emotions over what had transpired in the kitchen, Rhys could only give a simple nod.

“Should get on the nosh, though. Crew will be right peckish before supper rush later, and there ain’t much to be shown to ye yet, save for the tour. Yer win yaself some favor makin’ sure we’re fed. Any additional shite you need, just ask.”

It was a dismissal as much as it was advice. Removing a ladle from a rack, Zane lifted the lid from his pot, fitted the dipper-shaped object over the rim while he sprinkled spices and poured in other liquid substances. Moving as if in a dream, Rhys took initiative, opening the fridge once he’d crossed the room. 

Eyes doing a quick scan, the young chef zeroed in on several edible items that seemed they could be of use. 

Filet Mignon—nah, that looked like high quality stuff. Probably for a dinner special.

Great spheres of mozzarella wrapped in loose plastic, condensation collecting on the inside of the bags. _Those_ weren’t much of a meal. Even paired with the shiny perfection of the beefsteak tomatoes available, they were more of an appetizer.

Lemons, shallots. Tuna, sushi grade no less?

There was two perfectly cut squares of dark pinkish-red tuna. _The Diamond Pony_ didn’t serve sushi, as far as Rhys knew of its limited, evolving menu. And it wasn’t enough to fill guest orders for the night. 

“Hey, uhm, chef?” Rhys said, looking over his shoulder. 

“Aye, boyo?” 

The sous chef held his ladle aloft, spooning a bit of the liquid that had settled within it into a ramekin. His lips pursed as he blew on it, then took a sip. 

“Is this ahi tuna? I mean, is it being used for anything?”

“Jack got a bargain on it, that I know. Probably more than a wee one’s age. Don’t think he laid any plans to use it, considering. You lookin’ to make somethin’ of it, ye got the go ahead from me.”

Already forming his strategy to create the crew a simple but satisfying meal, Rhys grabbed the tuna. He also took the lemons and shallots, hunted the shelves until he found a jar of stone ground mustard. Once he had his cache of refrigerated items, he set them down on the counter, snapping his fingers as if having an epiphany.

“Sea salt, balsamic, and, ah, olive oil?”

“Eck, greasy,” Zane said as he finished off his ramekin of unidentified liquid. “Jack really should ax the backfat. Bloody recipe’s just too heavy.”

“Are you making Jack’s Golden Mulligan stew?” Rhys asked, suddenly intrigued.

“Feck yeah.” Snatching what looked like a plain baguette, Zane produced a large knife from a sheath on his belt that Rhys hadn’t even noticed, sliced a few pieces off. “It’s a right feckin’ bastard to make. Mainly cos Jack’s recipe is bajanxed.”

“Uh, right, right. But I just want to know: how—you know, the color? How’s he do that?”

“Why, that’s easy! Gold leaf, of course, ground with pestle and mortar. The edible shite. Bit gaudy if ye be askin’ me. Salt’s right there on the shelf, by the way. Wilhelm will give ya the oil. Balsamic, eh, oh. Calypso’s station.” Zane made a gesture to a small set-up against the wall. “Over there.”

Finding the balsamic vinegar and the salt, Rhys left the most daunting task for last: approaching Wilhelm. He shuffled up to the tower of a man, who appeared to be setting his dough to rise. Without a word, he turned to Rhys as he inched closer, regarded him a moment, then stepped away. A moment later he lumbered back carrying a multi-gallon jug filled with a rich, yellowish substance. Beefy hands unscrewed the cap, poured some of the contents into clear, nozzled squeeze bottles. When he was done, he slid one towards Rhys, nodding. 

“Th—thanks,” Rhys said, unable to help the stutter. 

With another nod, Wilhelm went back to his dough. That seemed to end the strange exchange. Zane was snickering as Rhys returned to his spread.

“Like I said: not one for words, Willy,” he remarked. “But get him on a topic he likes, and he’s like a curious school lad.”

Behind him, Wilhelm grunted.

As far as Rhys was concerned, he was less interested in the banter, more so in his preparation of the food. His balsamic was poured into a bowl, an ample dollop of the mustard stirred in with it. Olive oil once he felt the mixture was blended well enough, sprinkle of salt. He slapped some plastic over the top of the bowl, shifted it to the fridge. Then he was laying out sheets of plastic wrap on the counter top.

From over the rim of his pot, Zane glanced at him every now and then, a faint smile on his face. He was helpful enough to point out where to acquire a knife when it seemed like Rhys needed one. Apparently the one he’d removed from his belt was his and his alone.

Rhys set to slicing his tuna, knowing he had to use the most delicate of techniques with the fine grained fish. He made one inch squares out of the steaks, arranging them neatly along the plastic, then setting another swatch of plastic over them. From where Zane had shown him where the utensils were, he found a kitchen mallet, began pounding the tuna flat. 

“Could ye do that a wee bit quieter?” Zane requested. He was dropping pieces of his sliced bread into the stew pot in large chunks, scooping them out again after a bit. 

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Rhys said, his voice sounding distant with concentration. True to his word, he was setting down the mallet a moment later, the tuna also being ferried to the fridge.

Shallots were chopped, as were lemons, Rhys’ fingers graceful and precise, like a veteran surgeon performing complex procedures. The lemons were juiced with an effortless flick of his wrist.

“Well, ye sure ain’t makin’ sushi, but it looks just as fancy,” Zane piped up, abandoning his stove top. “Carpaccio, is it?”

“Shit, sushi!” Rhys exclaimed, as if he’d forgotten something essential in his recipe. “I could’ve made sushi. Damn. Missed opportunity. But, yeah. Lots of protein and fish oils. Very filling and healthy.”

“Don’t worry about it, boyo.” Putting his hands to his hips to strike an akimbo stance, Zane situated himself close enough to talk to Rhys without shouting. “M’sure there’s always next time to impress Jackie boy.”

“If he doesn’t send me home for good after trying my lunch.”

“Guess there is that to fret about, aye.” A forceful slap to his back almost pitched Rhys forward. He straightened up, shook it off, trying not scowl. “Oh, what’s that look, then? Ye not a soft boyo, are ye?”

“No, I wouldn’t say I am. I mean, I’ve worked in restaurant kitchens before.”

“But have ye worked in _this_ kitchen before?”

“No. No, of course not.”

A grin swept across Zane’s face, all encompassing, the lines etched into his skin stretched and pulled. 

“Alright then. Real straight talk now, mono e mono. Ye best be ready to take a blow to the bollocks, or several a day. Cos this is hell’s very own kitchen if there ever be one, and if ye can survive here, ye can survive anywhere. Take it from an old chef like me. You’ll wanna buck up and keep crackin’ on. Otherwise this ain’t the career ye be after.”

It wasn’t verbatim to the words Jack had spoken to Rhys, or any of Rhys’ personal thoughts. But it was similar and clearly derivative. Despite first impressions and his prickly demeanor, Jack was a professional worthy of the respect even those that loathed him gave, Zane his second in command. The former had been a successful chef and restaurateur since Rhys had been a kid, and he wouldn’t have made the latter his right hand man if the older gentleman didn’t know what he was doing. These words would be taken to heart, kept at the forefront of Rhys’ mind. 

With the first stirrings of his own smile, Rhys gave him a cheesy thumbs up.

“Got it, chef. I won’t disappoint. I promise.” 

Zane’s responding laughter seemed to go on and on.


	2. Chapter 2

“What up, my bitches!”

An hour before the restaurant was to open to the public for the evening, the kitchen doors burst inward, banging against the wall. The crew gathered there—currently Rhys, Zane, Wilhelm, and Timothy—were startled out of the quiet conversations they’d been engaged in over their carpaccio, Tim scrambling to keep a hold of his empty plate. Too slow of reflexes to counteract it, the remnants of the olive oil still slick on its surface had worked under Tim’s fingers, his grip without purchase. There was a small crash as the plate shattered against the kitchen floor, Tim left gaping at it.

“Aw, someone breaking shit in here without me?” said the giant of a man currently standing in the kitchen doorway. 

Almost immediately, Rhys realized his right arm was not of the flesh and blood variety. In its place, a very crude and primitive prosthetic, as far as technology went. Instead of a hand, it ended in a three-pronged gripper hook. In a wave of self-consciousness, Rhys glanced down at his own gloved right hand and arm.

“Oi, if it isn’t the gimpy fuckboy himself,” Zane piped up. “Alas, the prodigal son has returned.”

“Least I’m not some alcoholic boomer geezer who can’t get his dick up,” the unidentified man shot back, his oversized feet carrying him a few steps into the kitchen. “Oooo, burn.”

Already, Rhys was finding the newcomer obnoxious. The look in his ice-blue eyes was empty and cruel under his shock of dark hair that was a bit too ‘rock star’ for a kitchen. Face adorned with the strangest body mods Rhys had ever seen, everything from the gages in his ears to the multitude of tattoos that were peeking out of his clothing to his black and chipping nail polish screamed downtown hipster gutter punk. Rhys had also never heard of a chef that applied liberal amounts of make-up just before coming into work.

“Yeh, might need a bit of Engorge™! for me mickey every now and then, but at least I can take a bint or a fella to me own home cos I ain’t sharin’ a bed with me sister.” As everyone, including Rhys, looked at Zane, he gave a nervous chuckle, teeth bared in a grimace. “Oh, ah, too far?”

Speaking for maybe the first time since Rhys had arrived, Wilhelm crossed his arms over chest and looked down his nose at the Irishman, “Too far.”

“ _Definitely_ ,” Troy said in a deadpan, his expression hooded, unamused.

Tim merely looked between the three men, sighed, turned to find a broom.

As for Rhys, he just rubbed at the back of his neck, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“Feck,” Zane cursed softly. He crossed the distance between him and Troy, the other man more than a head taller than he was. His hand came up, and for just a sliver of time that seemed to unfurl like petals at dawn’s light, Rhys thought Zane was about to duke it out with him. But then the older man just reached up and gave him a few pats on the cheek. “Ya know I care about ye like me own kin, right, Calypso? That shite’s just kitchen banter.”

“Aw, old man, I always knew you wanted to rock my world. But ya know what? You can _kindly_ eat me.”

“I wouldn’t put my gob on ya arse for a whole fat sack of spondoolicks.”

Though the words were rife with conviction, there were traces of amusement in Zane’s voice that spoke of a different connotation bobbing just beneath the surface. 

“Wouldn’t want your slobbery liquor lips on it anyway.” Just like Zane’s contradictory tone, the first stirrings of a grin were beginning to form on Troy’s lips. “My dick, however— _maybe_ that can be arranged.”

“Oh, so ye want me to slobber on ya knob, boyo? Well, now, hand over a quarter-century bottle of Macallan whisky, and ye got yaself a deal.”

Troy was shaking his head. “You and your old, wrinkly nutsack ain’t worth that kind of money.” Rhys felt his heart slip from his chest cavity and tumble down his throat, dissolving in stomach acid when Troy’s gaze leveled distinctly on him. “Why don’t you ask the eff-en-gee over here?” Troy gestured to Rhys with his prosthetic. “He’s pretty cute and all. And he’s probably got big dick energy, since he’s internshipping _here,_ of all places.”

Throwing back his head, Zane slapped Troy on the back. Or mid-back, as it were, considering their height difference. A boisterous laugh erupted from his lungs.

“Yer a feckin’ shitehawk, Calypso.” All but gliding away, Zane reached out and took Rhys off guard as he headed back to his own station. The intern’s hair was ruffled, making him involuntarily bristle. He could feel the styling he worked so hard to achieve that morning getting knocked askew. “I ain’t after no chicken. Not like ya bossman butt buddy over there.” A pause, Zane ignoring the look Tim shot at him as he dumped his dustpan full of broken ceramic in the trash. “Right. He wanted to see ye in his office when yer got here. Was real urgent.”

“Fuck. I didn’t expect—” Cutting himself off before he could finish, Troy raised a finger between his teeth, gnawed at the painted nail. “Alright. Right. I better just…go in there and all that shit.” 

His demeanor shifting as if he’d succumbed to some rapid manic episode, the man had become another person entirely, transforming right before Rhys’ eyes. Then he was shaking his head, determination etched into his features.

“Got a new playlist me and Ty put together last night, by the way,” he said even as he was walking away, turning himself around, making a perfect backward beeline towards Jack’s office door. “Dropped those fat beats like a pregnant girlfriend.”

“Really?” said Wilhelm, voice dry as the flour he had rolled his dough out on earlier. 

Troy paid no mind to the other man. “It’s on our server. Feel free to dig in and press play.”

Rapping on the door with his claw, Troy didn’t wait for an answer. He twisted the knob, barging his way inside.

**But before lunch had even been served or Troy had shown up:**

Chilled to an adequate temperature, Rhys removed his tuna carpaccio from the fridge and took a pair of trays from Zane, who was looking on with a smirk that Rhys had yet to learn to interpret. He unfolded the plastic wrap, flipping the thin, succulent cuts on to one of the trays, peeling the rest of the wrapper off their backs. He did it with the second helping of tuna as well, two trays full to the brim with fish that he dashed with the olive oil in the squeeze bottle Wilhelm had given him. Salt and pepper was sprinkled, watercress placed atop.

His dough baked into bread by the time it had taken for the fish to get the fridge treatment, Wilhelm toasted an array of fresh slices, arranging them in layered lines on a baking sheet. 

It looked, to Rhys, like an absolutely satisfying lunch, and he couldn’t help but be proud of his improvisation. That, likely, was what Jack had wanted to see. If the head chef was anything like his—like his old boss, Herrington Strongfork, than the task he’d set on Rhys was less about feeding the crew and more about what the young chef could do instinctively and without prior preparation. 

One thing Rhys noticed almost right off was that nobody at _The Diamond Pony_ seemed to know exactly what anyone else was supposed to be doing. It was a lot of passing the buck. Hadn’t Mr. Blake said Jack was supposed to be handling his guidance of the kitchen today, and hadn’t Jack himself said he’d had a lot to go over with him? So far, Rhys hadn’t seen the chef since he’d holed up in his office some hours ago. Only Zane had stepped in with a sigh and a concerning scowl, setting his stew to a simmer and snatching up Rhys to steer him around the restaurant.

The tour assisted him in discovering where the basement was, and the filthy ally out back where trash was dumped and frequent smoke breaks were taken. He was assured that didn’t always mean cigarettes, though he could’ve done without that information.

The Irishman called the bathroom—just a toilet and sink in a cramped but clean space—Jack’s powder room. Of course, Rhys didn’t get it, and at his dumbfounded stare, Zane just shook his head and told him he would in time. That was, if he stayed on.

They explored the walk-in fridge, spending a good portion of time in there. The selection of ingredients and rarities awed Rhys in a way that he hadn’t been expecting. Working at Strongfork’s had made him no stranger to exotic tastes, but this was beyond his expierience.

Zane leaned back on a shelf, nearly knocking off some heirloom tomatoes from where they roosted in wooden crates.

“The lot of us have been taken wagers that one bloody day we’ll walk in on Jack givin’ someone the horn in here.” A pause, the older man shaking his head. “M’still waitin’ for it meself. Got quite the bucks ridin’ on it bein’ our salad chef.”

Just by the heat in his cheeks, Rhys knew the words had turned him as red as the blush on a mango.

“Don’t tell me I’ve embarrassed ye. Come now, boyo. Kitchen’s no place for polite yokes.”

“Er, I don’t think I’m a yoke, though?”

“Course ye are.” Huffing, Zane pushed off the shelf, ushered Rhys out of the fridge. “Everyone’s a yoke.”

“If you say so.”

“Aye, I do. And I’m ya superior. So best not wag ya gob about it to me.”

“Right, Right.”

After learning where supplies were stored, the information given in quick succession, Zane tried to get Wilhelm to say at _least_ one word to Rhys. Enough nagging, and it worked. 

Or it seemed it did.

“Interesting glove,” the human mountain said as he worked on what Rhys could only speculate was the process of setting chocolate in molds. 

It was the last thing someone as imposing as Wilhelm looked likely to be doing. Chocolate edibles were an art unto themselves, as was most dessert. Wilhelm seemed more a meat and potatoes kind of guy. The man looked like he might say more, but then he was popping his chocolates in a smaller refrigeration unit built into the cabinet beneath him, and that ended the conversation altogether.

In the front of the house, things had changed. Slightly. Vasquez was still at the bar, polishing bottles off, bottom lip jutted out as if he wasn’t impressed. No attention was paid to either Zane or Rhys as they emerged from the kitchen, as if their presence were beneath him. Though he couldn’t be certain, Rhys thought he sensed Zane go tense as they passed the bar. Interesting. He’d eventually have to find out the history of _that_. It was irrelevant now, though, as he was quick to notice Vasquez glancing at him from the corner of his eye. He’d never worked with anyone like the bartender, Rhys. But he sure as hell had attended The Casa with them, and he knew to avoid individuals of his ilk. They’d throw you under the bus at the first sign you might compromise their reputation. 

Standing at the hostess station was a newfangled member of the flock. Wide in the shoulders, muscular and athletic build under his formal black and white attire, blond hair trimmed into a respectable faux hawk, the man looked more like he belonged on the front lines of a war than someone ready to greet diners and show them to their seats. Leaning with one arm on a podium, biceps straining the material of his clothing, he was talking to Jack’s twin in a hushed tone. 

What was that guy’s name again?

“Timmo!” Zane burst out, startling the Jack doppelganger, who nearly jumped several feet straight off the ground. “Heh, bloody high strung, aren’t ye?”

From his place, the other man with the twin just turned his head, the faint hint of a grin plastered on his lips. Teeth straight and clean, eyes bright, Rhys had been wrong. This man should’ve been modeling for one of those scantily clad male calendars you could buy at mall kiosks. 

“Zane, my man!” the blond said, holding up his hand for a high five. 

There was definite reluctance in Zane’s smack of said hand. 

“Hey, here’s the new boyo we’re gonna be puttin’ up in the kitchen,” Zane said with a gesture at Rhys. 

Both the blond and the twin’s gazes fell upon him, the former looking perfectly pleasant, the latter taking on an expression Rhys couldn’t exactly read. At that moment, as little as Rhys knew of either twin so far, he knew damn well they didn’t express themselves in the same way.

“His name’s Rhys. Rhys Alton.”

“Alton?” the blond asked. 

The twin said nothing, mouth in a thin, tight line.

 _Please don’t ask…._ Rhys thought hard, wildly. 

“Y—yeah, Alton,” he said aloud, feeling his confidence slipping. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, er….”

“Axton. And this is Timothy.”

“Just Tim, thanks a bunch.”

Timothy. That was it. 

“I’m looking forward to working with you both.” Being polite, Rhys shook their hands, nearly whimpering when Axton gripped too tight. What came out of his mouth next, though—he could only wish for a time machine to take him back to the moment before he blurted it out. “I’ve never seen it mentioned in the media that Jack had a brother.”

Silence. Nobody was looking at one another, Zane inhaling but holding the breath, Axton looking suddenly at his dress shoes, as if they were fascinating in their gleaming cleanliness. Tim, however, swiped at his face, swept hair off his forehead and grunted.

“Funny, ain’t it?” he remarked. “Famous chef running a famous restaurant, but no mention of the brother he has that broke his ass along with him to birth this place. Nope. _All_ the credit goes to Jack Wolfbaine.” A bitter laugh escaped Tim and he shook his head. “Oh, man. I’m freakin’ sorry. I usually don’t go off like that. But you hit that nerve. I’m Timothy Lawrence, yeah. Jack’s twin brother. But, doi, you knew that.”

“I didn’t know your last name was Lawrence,” Rhys was quick to reply, and he could feel the tension being pulled way too taught at this point.

“Long story. One I don’t have time to tell.” With a sigh, Tim deflated. “Look, I got these tables to set and, you know, other stuff to do. Whoever’s doing lunch today, let me know when it gets picked up. I’m already starving. And can we not get that Malaysian place down the road again? That…that killed my stomach all day last time.” 

“Good thing Jack put me on lunch duty, then,” Rhys couldn’t help but blurt out. He knew he should probably cool it, stop talking before he made things even more awkward, but it was too much of an opportunity to pass up. And Rhys rarely backed down from being blunt. 

“Wait, what?” Tim asked, shifting in place. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “He chose the new line cook to make lunch? God, what the hell, Jack?”

“Hey, now,” Zane stepped in. “Might want to mind ye gob there, Tim. I laid my peepers on what Rhys here can do. The boyo’s got natural panache.”

“That’s not….” Setting his jaw, Tim looked resigned. His eyes—mismatched in color, same as Jack’s—fell upon Rhys. There was nothing much to be read from his expression. “I got work to do. Really. Just call me when the food’s up.”

With that, Tim turned on his heel, gait unsteady as he moved to a stack of burgundy tablecloths piled high on a bare table. With precise, militant movements, he unfolded them while retaining their crisp corners. 

“That’s all the gab we’ll be gettin’ out of ole Timmo for now,” Zane informed Rhys as he turned his back on him. “C’mon, let’s get the ovens fired up. Be a regular supper club in here before ya know it. Axton, lunch date, mate?”

“If it ain’t that old fish we got put up in the fridge, then sure.” At Rhys’ suddenly horrified expression, both Axton and Zane exchanged a smarmy look, Axton continuing, “We’re just joshing you, kid. A little crew banter never hurt anyone. I mean, I still really hate fish, but I know for a fact that it came straight from the Seaport Market, fresh as a babe after a nappie change.”

“Feck’s sake, why would you say such a thing?” Zane shot out. “Bollocks!”

“Look, I had, like, several younger siblings. It’s what military families do. We raise each other like a pack.”

“I’ve never heard a feckin’ take like that in me entire life.”

“No? Kinda funny, man with your background.”

“Oi, shut it.” It was clear that Zane was moving from something that had been friendly and rife with winking and nudging to true exasperation. Turning to Rhys, he gave him a nudge between the shoulder blades that was too forceful, all hard edges. “Let’s go peep at ye fish. Sure it’s ready for a pass around.”

In the kitchen, neither Axton nor Vasquez joined them for the communal meal. Much to Rhys’ dismay, Zane pulled paper plates instead of ceramic, the oil the petite pieces of toasts didn’t soak up dripping to their surface, threatening to wear them through. Still, he understood the tactic. Nobody wanted to wash dishes that the crew had eaten off of. Though, soon as Wilhelm almost lost his lunch through a tear that formed in the middle of his plate, he removed a stack of ceramic ones, setting them down directly in front of Zane. 

Tim showed up to scarf down his meal without barely a breath taken. Within a few bites, he’d already devoured two of the raw salmon fillets, as if he was a starving man. Every string of conversation Rhys tried to strike up with him was met with dismissal. The twin simply wasn’t going to be forthcoming on this particular day. Nobody offered a reason why. In the end, Tim offered to ferry a portion of lunch to Vasquez, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible, coming back only to drop off plates to his brother and the manager Blake and then deciding to help himself to another portion. 

After that, and Tim’s now infamous plate drop, the clock was making a steady tick towards the opening hour, which would be promptly at five o’clock, when the first reservation was scheduled. Ingredients had to be prepared, pre-baked goods and delectables ready for a fry that was swift and deep, additional items ready to cook and be made to order. With his earlier companion, the mallet, Zane had Rhys pound meat flat and roll it in plastic wrap to be chilled.

Troy’s punctual arrival mentally received two thumbs way down from Rhys, his disappearance as he was called to the master like a dog to the heel, never emerging from the office again, much more accepted. In flowed the evening crew. With handshakes that left him frazzled from their strengths, Rhys met Janey and Amara, the two quite muscular and capable ladies who acted as servers for the front of the house. 

The last one to trickle in was a woman that Rhys could only describe as an icicle wrapped around a heart of pure flame, keeping it from being set ablaze. She had hair of a peculiar shade of purple, lips turned in a stern bow and hardened eyes. Her chef’s coat was blood red. 

At once, Rhys knew this was Athena. In a corner, Janey stood, having a heated, whispered debate with her, throwing up her hands at last. The two parted ways, the kitchen door swinging violently as Janey all but stomped through it. 

Athena set her sights on Rhys, turning to him with a look that could’ve sent a greenhorn crawling out of the kitchen with tail tucked between his legs.

High strung as he was, Rhys bit back a yelp and shuffled a step or two, knocking into a pile of bowls on the counter with a clatter.

“So, er…I didn’t know Jack had a son,” Rhys let tumble out of his mouth, in search of conversation to break the tension. _Any_ conversation.

“What?” Athena almost snapped at him.

“Troy. Th—they called him the prodigal son.”

The woman looked around the rest of the kitchen crew, face screwed up into something accusatory. It seemed to fall on Wilhelm, who didn’t even so much as frown at her. 

“Alright,” she said, voice a deadpan. “Who let this pretty boy jackass wander into our kitchen?”

Not a soul, not even Zane, who’d had his back several times earlier, spoke up. Rhys found himself gulping. 

Suddenly, chef Jack Wolfbaine seemed like a mewling kitten in the face of this woman.


	3. Chapter 3

Papers fluttered to the carpet, Jack having pushed them off the desk with the flat of his hand. Spittle flecked his lips, rage unbound, consuming him where he sat. Across from him, Mr. Blake sat perfectly straight up in his chair, hands resting on the armrests, lips pulled tight like a coin purse. Unable to console his boss, he stayed rigid, keeping his mouth wisely shut.

Head in his hands, Jack sat in the chair opposite him, fingers scrubbing at his cheeks, moving upward to snarl in his hair. From his parted lips, yelling without words came. His eyes were bloodshot, mouth a knife slash when he closed it.

“This is bullshit, Blake,” he said after sitting there in silence for a few good minutes, lip curling in a snarl. “Absolute bullshit. All these years, I was the best chef in town. Had the best _restaurant_ in the city. People’d crush each other just to get inside. It was a beautiful thing. And now this.” There was a newspaper in his hands, rolled up into a tight coil. He slammed it down on to the desk, letting it unfurl.

**THE DIAMOND PONY TO LOSE MICHELIN STAR, FOODIES OF OPPORTUNITY DEVASTATED**

“And this?” Jack demanded, gesturing wildly at a separate stack of papers. The stack had been compromised, several of the papers missing. “What the fuck is this?”

“It appears, sir,” Blake answered, steepling his fingers, “that you have been served by your wife.” 

“No doi, Blake. I meant more like how can she do this to me? She _knows_ we’re trying to get Angel through school like, ya know, a _normal_ kid. Has she lost her goddam _mind_ asking for this much? I can’t just hand her those kinds of assets. It’s not like she’d go and make sure Angel’s getting the best education money can buy. She ain’t even her real mom.” 

Blowing air out from his bottom lip, Jack slumped in his chair as if physically defeated. Then, without warning, his thick arm descended like a tidal wave once more upon the desk. This time destruction was dealt to more than just papers. Blake bent to pick up a paperweight that had rolled to his feet in the wake of Jack’s wrath. The cartoon chef it depicted’s arm had broken off from the fall it had taken. On its heavy, trapezoidal bottom it read: **NO. 1 DAD**

“Ah, shit,” Jack said, snatching the broken trinket from Blake’s hand. “Can this day get any fucking worse?”

The office door creaked open. Standing at the threshold was Tim, a platter wrapped in plastic so tight it looked like a hovering shield above the succulent cuts of fish it protected. Without asking, he marched into the room, setting the food down on the desk.

“Lunch,” he said, his voice deflated to something lifeless. He cleared his throat. “I—I could hear you out in the hallway. What’s going on with Angel, Jack?”

“Nothing, bro,” Jack said in a clipped tone. “Nothing you need to know, at least. She’s fine. Me, not so much. But you probably don’t really care about that, do you.” It wasn’t a question. With the paperweight set down, Jack picked at the wrapping on the platter. “Troy here yet?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if he was.” Setting his hands in his pants pockets, Tim shrugged both shoulders. “Not unless you tell me what’s going on with you.”

Jack fixed his gaze on his twin. His tongue skated out, licked fastidiously at his dry lips. He was standing up suddenly, moving to the sideboard to pop the hefty top off a crystal decanter full of a dark, amber liquid. Two shot glasses were taken up, poured out. One was shoved in Tim’s hand.

Gulping down his own drink, Jack said with a hissing breath as he rode out the burn of alcohol, “Me and the ball and chain are going to Splitsville. She’s gonna try and fucking buy me out of my own restaurant.”

“Say what?” Tim’s gaze fell to his drink. There was hesitation in his movements as he lifted it to his lips and slurped liquid off the top.

“It’s a shot glass, Timothy. You’re supposed to down it in one go.”

“Don’t wanna. You going to elaborate for me or, well, what?”

“Nah, you heard me. Bitch is gonna take me for a ride all the way to losing this fucking place if I’m not careful. She don’t care about all I’ve worked for here, or Angel, or our marriage. Nothing.”

“Well, Jack, not to side with her or anything.” Finally, Tim’s lips parted for the alcohol, the liquid tossed down his gullet. He coughed and sputtered, waiting until the lapse in good judgment had passed. “But it isn’t like you ever acted like you gave much of a shit, either. You didn’t even _try_ and find a place for just the two of you. You stayed living with me under the same roof.”

“Don’t see how that’s so big a deal.” Pouring himself another glass, Jack finally made it back to the platter of fish, attacking the wrapper in earnest this time. “The townhouse was big enough for it. What, you wanted me to just kick you out into the street? You wouldn’t bloody survive. You want me to kick you out _now?_ ”

“Noooo.” Tim drew out the word, setting his glass aside. His fingers scratched with nervous energy at his scalp. “Not what I meant. I just mean you two had a life and I was constantly in it, and it really wasn’t by any fault of mine, if you follow me.”

“Know what? I totally don’t.” 

Blake was a lifesaver when he appeared with a serving fork, utensils, and wax-coated plates. Stabbing at the tuna, he settled a duo of thin cuts on a plate, pushing it toward Jack. Another was set, slid in Tim’s direction. The twin ignored it, shaking his head at his brother.

“Forget it. I gotta get back to the kitchen. Where even my unreasonable co-workers seem sane compared to the likes of you.”

“Fine. Fine, do whatever you want, Tim. I don’t give a shit.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“You tell Troy to get his ass back here pronto, _capische_?” With fork in hand, Jack speared a piece of tuna carpaccio, the fish staying firm on the prongs. The chef popped the morsel into his mouth, chewed, the gesture turning slow and deliberate. “Holy shit. I told the kid not to try and impress me, but consider me impressed. What the hell’s his name, Rhys? Yeah, Rhys is a freakin’ culinary genius. And since I’m the one declaring it, it’s gotta be true.”

“That’s another thing.” As if spurned by some invisible force, Tim darted forward, struck Jack in the center of his chef’s coat with his index finger, making him grunt and growl like a rabid animal. “Your goddam habit, Jack. Do you really think your wife wanted to hang around a guy who was blowing thousands of dollars up his nose a week? Does that sound like it was fun for her?”

His brother’s brows drew down in a furrowed ‘V’ shape. 

“It ain’t anything like a real addiction. I don’t ever do it cos I feel I gotta. You’re just making a big deal about it. Like always. _Nisha_ sure doesn’t care. Hell, girl even knows how to party like a rock star _with_ me.”

“Nisha ain’t your wife, and, man, I’m not even going to open the floor to _that_ topic.” 

“Hey, I ain’t no cheater, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Knowing when he wasn’t going to get through to his brother, no matter how hard he kicked and clawed at the stubborn wall of the man’s psyche, Tim backed off and didn’t answer. Instead, he turned on his heel, heading towards the door. But not before glaring at Jack over his shoulder. 

“You wanna talk to Troy about that stupid nose candy of yours, do it yourself. I’m not enabling you.” 

Taking another bite of his fish, Jack chewed loudly. His mouth gaped open as the office door slammed behind his brother, a muffled ‘huh’ escaping him. Turning to Blake, he held up his fork, the tuna wobbling as he waved it with a flourish. 

“Rhys _is_ pretty good at this cooking thing, though,” he commented, swallowing and immediately shoveling the next forkful into his mouth. “Who’d’ve thought? I finally got myself a bonafide cook for an intern.”

“That is fantastic news, sir,” Blake replied in his usual deadpan. Barely blinking or moving, the manager was like a statue carved from rigid stone as he stood there. “Congratulations.”

“Don’t congratulate me just yet. Troy hasn’t delivered my stash, and I’m getting impatient. The hell is my freaky scene kid?”

Without humor, Blake asked, “Are you referring to Tyreen, sir?”

“What? No, no. My _discount_ scene kid. The dealer one that makes the salads. I just literally said fucking Troy, didn’t I?”

For the second time, a rap came upon the door, the knocks made in succession to the tune of something uneven and without much tune.

Jack said, putting his plate aside, “And that would probably be him now.”

xxx

Heaven was the martini with the skewer of half-soaked olives before her to the lone woman sitting on the barstool. Her body was clad in a strapless black skin of a dress that went slinking from chest to thighs, where it split down the side to reveal powerful thigh and calf muscles and dainty feet in stiletto heels. With a wave of her hand, she flipped bleached white hair off her forehead and out of her eyes, uncrossed her legs beneath the bar and re-crossed them. The diamonds around her neck twinkled in the ambient light as one elegantly gloved hand, the black material reaching all the way to her elbow, lifted the drink to her dark smear of lipsticked lips. She downed it in a single gulp, set the glass down on the bar top.

“Pour a girl another one?” Tyreen asked Vasquez, her manicured nail tracing the rim of the glass, smearing the faint traces of lipstick there.

“Ah, I don’t think so,” the bartender said, approaching where she sat. There was a shaker in one of his hands, which he set down and fed some sprigs of fresh mint. “You know I’m not even supposed to be indulging you. And nothing’s ever on the house.”

“Oh, come on, Hugo. You won’t even break the rules for little ole me?”

“Especially not for you. You haven’t even started your set. Jack…would not be pleased with me.”

“Exactly my point, babe. This palette is professional. I need it nice and….” She trailed off, pausing to smirk at him, her hand coming to rest beneath her chin. “Wet.”

“Trying to seduce me isn’t going to win you any points of my favor.”

“Seduction? Ha! That’s so wonderfully cheesy. You always know how to amuse a girl, Hugo.”

“I also know when certain girls should learn that yes, they’re cut off, and they need to vacate the vicinity of my bar.”

She laughed, rich, heartily, the sound coming from a genuine place. 

“Fine. Have it your way, sweet thing.” 

Lifting her ass from the stool, Tyreen hung on to the rungs with her heels, hovering over the bar so that she was leaning into Hugo’s space. Keeping balance with one hand, she reached and caressed the curvature of his beard with the other, ruffling the fine hairs, bringing him closer with the draw of her palm. Her lips pressed with the faintest of touches against his cheek. 

“Just remember: I’ll always make it worth your while to serve me.”

As if burned, Vasquez drew back, almost causing Tyreen to teeter over. She slammed her other hand down on the bar top quickly, preventing herself from meeting it with her face.

“I’m a married man, Miss Calypso,” Vasquez murmured, face ashen. There was a loud gulping sound as he swallowed hard, one finger tugging at the knot of his tie as if it were trying to strangle him. 

“And my brother would murder you if you laid a hand on me,” Tyreen said, sounding almost wistful as she took up the toothpick sitting in her empty glass, the plump olives skewered on it sucked between her lips. “Good thing it ain’t you I’m interested in here.”

“Is…did someone turn the thermostat up?” Vasquez asked, stepping out from behind the bar. “I’m just going to go check real quick. Don’t touch any of the bottles, please.”

“What’s stopping me if I really wanted to? Besides Mr. Wolfbaine’s wrath. That is if he were to find out.”

Vasquez didn’t answer her but he did shoot her a glare as he walked away. Settling back on her cushy stool, Tyreen twisted around, but not to watch him leave. There were other figures afoot that were capturing her attention more so than he could at the moment. One such was done up in dark slacks and rich, deep purple button-up with an elegant black tie tucked in halfway down their top, as was the style that all the waiters and waitresses wore here. Their rich, glossy hair was flowing freely tonight in a curtain down their back, permed just enough to look professional without being gaudy. Their amethyst eyes glowed like jewels, accenting their smooth, sinewy caramel skin. Today, they were actually smiling. Even as they sorted wine lists and the day’s menus with Axton, they were a radiant goddess, gorgeous and bold. Tyreen wished their intricate tattoo was on display, but it was entirely covered up by their clothing. The only way she was getting a sight of the entirety of that again was if they did another gym run together. That was certainly not going to happen. The other woman was a beast when it came to workout routines. Tyreen was no slacker about fitness, but she simply hadn’t been able to keep up.

Just then the woman looked up from her work, as if sensing eyes upon her. Realizing she’d been caught staring, Tyreen gave a limp wave and a crooked smile. Damn. She was always so awkward around Amara. The woman threw her off terribly.

A sly smile came to pass across Amara’s lips. She raised a hand, gesturing more than waving, even _those_ movements enticing to Tyreen. Wondering if Amara was somehow aware of the effect she had on her, Tyreen could feel her cheeks heating up. Likely flushed, she had to find something to occupy herself with. Quickly. Rising, she headed to the raised dais that served as _The Diamond Pony_ ’s stage. Maybe she could do a mic check or something. It would occupy a small enough pocket of time. 

She was far too aware of the loud clomping her stilettos made on the dais as she stepped up, knowing Amara likely wasn’t paying attention to the sound, but insecure about it regardless. As much as she craved and adored attention, she was uncomfortable under the woman’s scrutiny. For obvious reasons. Clutching the mic stand, nails tapping against the mic itself as she switched it on, a soft burst of sound reverberated through the room. Both Amara and Axton did glance up, but only for a second to see what the noise was. 

Did Amara’s eyes linger on her? If so, yay? Tyreen cleared her throat, stepped even closer to the sound equipment.

“Gonna do a little warm-up song today,” she said to a room that was empty save for her co-workers. “This is _What We Lost in the Fire_ , Vaudeville style.” 

Tyreen counted down in her head, her inner diva taking the reins, launching directly into the song without background music. Letting the first verse warm her voice up, she launched into the second with more gusto, her vocals reaching the emotional highs it needed to carry the song by the time the chorus came. Languidly, drawing out the notes, she belted with all the robustness she could muster:

 _Let it all burn  
up to the sky  
There is a freedom  
you cannot deny  
I can rebuild  
bigger and higher  
I can replace  
what I lost in the fire_

Clapping erupted in the room. Tyreen focused on it, realizing it was Axton and not Amara. The woman was watching her, though, albeit out of the corner of her eye. Her hands continued to work through the menus while she did, but her posture told Tyreen what she was dying to know.

For the rest of the duration of the song, all the way up to the final notes, Tyreen was beaming.

xxx

“So, lemme get this straight.”

Jack leaned his ass back against his desk, sleeves of his chef’s coat rolled up past his elbows, thick forearms crossed over his chest. Troy stood with his back to the door, shoulders hunched just slightly as if he were an abused dog waiting for a kick from his master, painted nail being worried between his teeth.

“You conveniently forgot my stash back in your apartment all the way downtown, and you didn’t think, not for one moment, that I’d be pissed at you?”

Spitting a piece of black-chipped nail on to Jack’s carpet, Troy instantly regretted that action at the sight of his boss’ fiery gaze. 

“Uh, no? I mean, it’s not _your_ stash entirely. You only want, like, not even a gram, right?”

“How the hell would you even know?” His hand pressed against his forehead, thumb and middle fingers to either side of his temples, Jack closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then another. The chef’s head tilted back as if he were trying to staunch a nose bleed. “Alright. Okay. I need my shit, but we can work this out.”

“Well, I might have _something_ on me.”

Jack’s head whipped around so fast that Troy wasn’t sure how the man didn’t endure whiplash from it. His eyes were open now, intense as they remained unblinking.

“But it’s not even an eighth,” the tall Calypso went on, “and I was saving it for when the dinner rush hit. I was up all night cutting some new tracks.” 

There was a moment of silence then three or five or more. The lack of noise in the room, save for Blake typing away at his laptop at the desk, ignoring them, gave Troy a false sense of security. He pushed himself away from the door almost to be immediately pounced on by Jack, who crossed the room so fast he was just a blur of motion. Massive hands grabbing him by the apron straps, Jack attempted to push Troy against the wall, stopped only by Troy’s feet digging into the carpet and his overall height advantage.

“You could not possibly begin to understand the day I’ve been having,” Jack wrenched out through gritted teeth, the muscles in his neck protruding with his efforts. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to walk yourself out of my restaurant. You’re going to get in your car and you’re going to drive all the way downtown to your shitty ass apartment, where you’re going to pick up whatever you have holed up there in fine quality blow—none of that synthetic shit or dumb pills—and ya gonna come back here and sell it all to me.”

“Shit, you withdraw harder than one of those weepy-eyed douches from the Platinum District,” Troy said, voice almost rising to a whine. “I can’t just sell you my whole stash and crap. I got other clients. And you know what traffic’s gonna be like right now? I’ll miss a good part of my shift.”

“Does it seem like I give a rat’s ass? Oh yeah, and I totally forgot: yer gonna give me whatever you’re carrying _right now_ or so help me, I’ll be firing both you _and_ your sister, no severance pay whatsoever.”

“What? Fuck you, Tyreen didn’t even do anything!” As he gestured with his prosthetic, Troy shook his head, hair flopping in his face. “Nah, wait, sorry I said that. Didn’t mean it, bossman. Please. Don’t fire us. We can’t afford that shit right now. Look. There might be a better solution to this all.”

Jack sniffed, craned his neck to look all the way up at Troy, who had risen to his full height in the scuffle. His hands loosened on the apron, then fell away altogether.

“Go on,” he said, making a corkscrew motion with his wrist, prompting Troy to speak.

“There’s a guy I happen to know. If I can get in touch with him, I might be able to meet him somewhere closer and pick up a fresh supply. I mean, eh, it’s gonna cost ya, of course. But we could probably finagle something. Whaddya say, you in?”

“What do you think, Calypso?” Backing off entirely, Jack muttered to himself, reached inside the pocket of his slacks for the square, cardboard package there. The bottom of the cigarettes, once pulled out, were rapidly tapped before Jack removed one from the sleeve. “You go get me that fire shit, and I’ll call you and your sister’s jobs safe.”

“Really? You’re not fucking with me?”

“Now why would I do that to my favorite employee here?” The cigarette pushed between his lips, Jack didn’t light up. “Go on, get. I’ll have someone cover your station if I need to. Right now, though, I gotta go and smoke like this entire pack. Cause of _you_ trying to be the death of me.”

Troy snorted but was glad overall that he’d walked through the barn fire his boss had ignited with so much apathy and disregard for others and survived. It was surely a tale he could regale his co-workers with. That was if they even believed him. They probably thought he was down on his knees this very moment sucking Jack’s dick or performing some other outrageous sex act. Like he’d even do that with Blake sitting right there.

“I should probably get on that then?” Troy said, eyebrows raised, his phone taken up in hand.

“What the hell do you think I was shooing you for?” Jack snapped at him, his expression drawn, exasperated. “Don’t be a dumbass. I know you’re smarter than that, Calypso.”

“Right. You will _not_ be disappointed with this product. And I will see you, I guess, when I see ya.”

With that, Troy stole his opportunity to go slipping out of the office door.


	4. Chapter 4

The music was blaring through the kitchen doors. Nobody paid it any mind, wrapped up in their chopping and their mixing. Rhys, however, had wandered over to the doors, was peering out the clear windows to see beyond into the dimly lit dining room. It was still empty, save for some of the wait staff and a figure standing on a round dais tucked against a wall. Currently, she stood before a microphone, her mouth poised intimately close to its mesh casing, eyes hooded. The lyrics of whatever song she was singing were crawling in a lazy, drawling contralto from her mouth. It made Rhys want to break out into song himself, drawn to the hypnotic, swaying beat. Instead, he settled for tapping his foot along to it, trying not to linger long by the doors, as Athena and Zane was already eyeballing him. Like a scolded puppy, he made his way back to his place alongside Athena.

“You’ve plated before.” Athena didn’t address it in the form of a question, hands falling to her hips. She looked like she could glare lasers straight through Rhys’ torso at the moment. At his nod, she continued with, “So that shouldn’t be too hard for you to grasp, and I’ll skip to where you’re cooking the eggs. Do you know what the special is tonight?”

“Yeah, I remember what you ran by me,” Rhys answered. “Mignon and huevos. Basically your typical huevos rancheros dish with a pricey spin.”

“Not quite that basic. We use quail eggs instead of chicken. The beans are mashed by Wilhelm. Zane cooks them along with the chorizo. You and I handle the prep and the plating. Troy is on salads and sauces only—this dish doesn’t require any sauces. Jack is the only one allowed to make the steaks. Do you feel you understand all that, or am I going to be sitting here all night repeating myself?”

“It’s simple enough. A little more…people to work with than I’m used to in a kitchen, but I can handle it.”

“Good. Tell me the truth: have you ever cooked a quail egg?”

“Not really.” Rubbing the back of his neck with his gloved hand, Rhys gave a sheepish smile, nervously chuckling. “Actually, no.”

Athena nodded. “As I suspected. Quail eggs take a delicate touch. You’ll want to crack it this way so you don’t break the yoke.” She demonstrated the technique by taking an egg from a crate on the counter and miming the procedure without following through with it. “Overcooking them is common as well. You don’t want them to be in the pan more than two or three minutes. We’re plating two at a time. They go over the refried beans, which are placed on a fried tortilla beforehand. Likely it will be me who finishes off the topping. If we get put in the weeds, we’ll hand them off to Troy for that. Are you still following?”

“I think so. Eggs me, don’t break the yoke, three minutes top to cook, over the beans on a tortilla, off to you or Troy for the finishing touches.” 

“Jack will plate the steak last, and he does that on his own. Whatever you do here, don’t ever rush. Jack likes you to hustle, but also to be efficient. If hustling causes you to mess up, then you don’t do it.” Picking up a chopping knife, Athena held it like a warrior preparing for battle, point turned upwards. “If you think you’re ready to begin, then I have nothing further to say to you, and we should get ready to do our jobs.”

“No, sweetheart,” came a voice, and Rhys turned to see Jack emerging from the hallway. 

He looked disheveled and haggard, his eyes squinted, body slouched as if he bore the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Stray strands of hair peppered his forehead, his gray streak on prominent display front and center, wrestled there by nicotine-stained fingers. He smelled of smoke and ash, and the curve of his mouth was mean, nearly a snarl. Flesh under his eyes hung weighted, puffy. Jack looked like he’d been drinking all night into the morning on some magnificent bender, and was now sporting the wickedest, thorniest hangover.

“You should already be doing them,” he concluded. “We stay one step ahead of the competition. Always. That’s how we top the best chefs they throw at us out there in the urban culinary jungle. Oh, right, Troy had to run an errand. He won’t be back until later. So I want the F-N-G on salads. Think you can handle that, Rhysie?”

“Rhysie?” Rhys asked, unable to stop himself from repeating the word, so off putting it was.

Like a homing missile locking on to its target, Jack’s gaze leveled on Rhys. 

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

It was on Rhys’ tongue to tell the chef that no, that wasn’t his name, but something held him back. It was as if his subconscious recognized Jack as some large, dangerous predator and was kicking him into fight or flight mode. And right now, he was definitely backing off if not downright fleeing. With as short as a time he’d known the chef, he still recognized that his instincts weren’t wrong. Rhys was just about terrified of the man, and with good reason, considering his reputation among students at The Casa. But this was less derived from culinary academy tall tales, and more out of being around someone so simultaneously infamous and talented.

“Y-yup,” Rhys said, seeing Athena narrow her eyes at him from the corner of his eye. Her lips were pursed in a scowl. “It’s actually, well, Rhys. But feel free to call me whatever you want.”

“That’s what I said, right?” There was something sharp to Jack’s voice, glimmering just beneath the surface. Rhys did _not_ want to go trying to unearth it. “Can we maybe just get our shit together here, already? We’ve got under an hour till customers start bustin’ down the doors.”

“Oi, chef, we do have our shite together,” Zane spoke up, his voice like a whip crack. Knife in hand, he was slicing chorizo into thin slices without barely glancing down at his work. “And you know as well as the rest of us lot that ain’t many blokes or beans goin’ ta be bum rushin’ our front stoop at top of the hour.”

“Do we really gotta have a talk about kitchen morale again?” Jack said, the sharpness in his voice now dragged across a proverbial whetstone, made more deadly. The head chef checked his watch and made his way to the refrigerator, extracting two trays lined with thick medallions of beef. They were the filet mignons Rhys had seen earlier, and he was probably allowing the meat to reach room temperature for even cooking. In his head, Rhys took notes of the method. “I’ve told you over and over, Flynt. So many times now my freakin’ ledger has a section devoted to it: as long as we still get reservations, this restaurant gets treated like it’s jam packed. You don’t like that policy, or any of my policies, then nobody’s forcing you to keep working here.”

Overall, Rhys didn’t think Jack was wrong. When he’d worked at _Strongfork_ ’s, the same zeal and devotion had been branded upon him, forcing him to uphold the restaurant’s legacy even on the days where the kitchen was slow or the work insufferable. When it came to the restaurant industry, an aspiring chef may as well have been a member of a cult, their colleagues and them hunkered around the restaurant’s reputation like obsessed devotees, upholding it to the highest degree. It was no surprise that the chef de cusine held a similar belief, or that Rhys agreed with it. What shocked him more was that the kitchen staff here hadn’t wriggled their way out from under Jack’s thumb by now and moved on to more lucrative restaurants if the situation really was that dire.

“Aye, chef, I know,” Zane said, and the sigh that escaped his lungs was drawn out, billowing. Rhys could sense his wariness as if it were tangible enough to touch. “It’s just that, ye know, it’s gettin’ harder and harder to do such.”

Stopping what he was in the middle of, Jack didn’t turn around. Not immediately. Something slammed against the counter, causing the meat trays to rattle and pots to clatter down. The chef had driven his fist against it.

“Why do you think it’s suddenly A-freakin-ok to have this conversation here and now?” he demanded. “What the fuck’s biting you in the ass so badly? Tell me. As my sous chef, I wanna know what’s going on with you, and if you’re still gonna be dependable.”

“Ain’t like that, chef.” Calm, almost eerily so, Zane set a cast iron pan down on the stove top in front of him, slid over some softening butter and cut away a few pats. “We’ve been workin’ our arses off here most nights, ain’t ever really get much word ah thanks for it. All goes to you. And it ain’t like we really need it and all. We’re a humble lot.”

From his place at his station, Wilhelm looked up from his mashing and emulsifying, said, “Got a point, chef,” and then fell silent once more.

Athena remained quiet, her gaze fixed on Jack specifically, body poised as if she were expecting a fist fight to break out.

“We just want ah bit o’er kind word every now and then from ye,” Zane went on. “Mebbe ah ‘nice job’ or a ‘good work’ or…or sumthin’! We haven’t even had a proper pint together, all of us, in almost a year.”

“So you want me to go around giving you gold stars and pats on the asses? You’ve lost the fucking plot, Zane.”

“Think it’s ye whose lost ‘is way, chef. What happened to ya? You’ve never been like—”

When Jack whipped around, his eyes those of a wild animal’s, Athena was ready to interfere. She sprung into action, catching the pan Jack flung at Zane’s station like an Olympic athlete. However, she wasn’t fast enough to catch the ladle as well, and it went tumbling towards Wilhelm, banging against his work space. Instead of jumping back or reacting with alacrity, his brow simply furrowed, a grunt emitting from him.

It was Rhys who couldn’t help it, the noise finally igniting his flight response. Yelping, he stumbled back, nearly falling on to his ass as he tripped over himself. 

The expression on Jack’s face somehow remained neutral, his tone aggressive but not raised.

“Why don’t you go ask my wife that question?” He’d picked up another pan, but didn’t have it poised to throw. Instead he carried it over to a burner, slamming it down on the stove with a clatter. “Oh, sorry, I mean my _ex_ wife. Or soon to be ex.”

“That ain’t no reason to be throwin’ shite at us like we’re some common mutts!” Zane’s voice was high and thin with barely contained rage. “We ain’t ye old dame.”

“And if ya want a compliment, I got one for ya,” Jack said, leaning forward on the counter, palms bracing his weight. He was directly across from Zane, the pair locked in stares as if they two wild animals involved in a territorial dispute. Jack, however, turned his head away, pointed at Rhys with a calloused finger, smirk painted across his features. “The new guy? Wouldn’t kick him out of my bed. Just saying.” 

Having just recovered from nearly busting his ass on the kitchen floor his first day, Rhys tuned back in just in time to hear the sentiment. His jaw dropped open, no sound coming out. He probably couldn’t have formed words even if he’d had anything to say. 

Zane snorted. “Ye got a bad feckin’ problem, Jack. Ain’t be no help for you.”

“You can blame Troy for that. Take it up with him when he gets back.”

That seemed to settle things back into place, or at least nobody else piped up with anything to add to the conversation further. For Rhys, it was a matter of having nothing to say to what he’d just heard about himself from Jack’s mouth. Was the chef serious, or was he just being an ass? Probably the latter. The young cook was pretty sure a man as influential and powerful in the culinary world as Jack wouldn’t be interested in the likes of him. Sure, he’d been a part of the _Strongfork_ establishment, but that was a whole lot of very little prestige compared to the other chef. Rhys was just a guy who liked to cook and happened to be well trained. Most of the other aspects of his leisure time were distinctly nerdier.

Approaching the salad station, which was tucked against a wall apart from the others, Rhys scanned the area, taking inventory of the supplies there. Small plates, tongs, and knives were in easy reach. Taped to the wall in so many layers of scotch tape it looked laminated was a cheat sheet of sorts, names of different salads scribbled in haste followed by lists of ingredients. That was convenient. Nobody should have to assist Rhys if he had this as reference. He raised a gloved finger to it, tracing the first line that listed off _Salad de Pony_ , a dish that was apparently served hot.

“Warm salad?” Rhys muttered to himself, all other thoughts of what devilry had occurred in the kitchen falling to the wayside of thought. “That’s…odd, yet reasonable, considering the artichoke hearts get sauteed.”

“I told Troy to take that thing down,” came a voice directly behind him. “Kid never listens. He’s lucky he’s still under my employment.” 

Senses alert, Rhys smelled Jack before he heard him. The other man smelled heavily of acrid smoke and rich tobacco, the scent clinging to him like an unshed skin. Where the average person might find such a smell offensive, Rhys took comfort in it. In _Strongfork_ ’s kitchen, workers seemed to spend most of their down time puffing away on cheap or hand-rolled cigarettes. It became part of a comfortable routine, and Rhys found himself oddly quelled by it now. 

“Salads are tricky.” Feeling it was probably better to be facing the head chef, just in case the man decided to go apeshit again and toss a pan at Rhys this time, he turned around. “Lots of of ingredients to remember. And it seems your selection is extensive.”

“True enough. Troy’s been at it less than a year. Just wish he’d learn already. Kid’s brains are too scrambled with all the shit he crams into his skinny ass. Knew I shouldn’t have hired some druggie.”

From across the room, Zane cleared his throat. Loudly. Jack continued without paying him any mind.

“Anyway.” Using his fingernails, Jack reached and picked at the tape holding the cheat sheet in place until he could peel it away. With a chef’s delicate touch, he pulled the paper off the wall without managing to tear it, slapping it down in front of Rhys. “From one chef to a baby chef, pretty sure you can handle this. It’s straight forward, no frills. We chop our lettuce unless requested not to. Which in that case they can suck my dick, cause why come to a restaurant or eat out at all if you’re going to change the fucking fundamentals of the recipe?”

“Because of the novelty of the experience,” Rhys offered, the words tumbling out as if on cue. “Dad always said people came more to be fawned over by some famous entity and brag about it to their friends then to actually enjoy the food and what went into making it.”

“Your dad, eh?” Jack inclined his head. “He a chef, too?”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Rhys looked away, settling his hands on the counter and directing his gaze to them. “Sort of. He taut me a lot about cooking when I was younger.”

“That so?” 

A moment or two went by in which Jack regarded him, head canted to one side. Large fingers came up to stroke his chin. Suddenly, Rhys was drawn to that aspect of his anatomy, as if enraptured. A chef with hands like those was usually a clumsy one. But though he hadn’t seen Jack wield them exactly, he’d heard legendary stories of the man’s technique. He was a downright anomaly when it came to the culinary world.

Those fingers snapped in front of his face. Shaking his head to clear it, Rhys checked himself back into reality.

“Wake the fuck up, Rhysie. Your dad teach you different slack off methods too or what?”

“Ah, no. I was just—I’ll get right to work.”

“Good. S’what I like to hear. Ingredients are in the fridge, dressings are labeled. I shouldn’t be hearing ya call for help unless you’re in the weeds.”

“Of course, chef.” Straightening to his full height, Rhys spotted a box of latex gloves placed on a shelf above him. After reaching up and grabbing it, he donned one on his flesh hand, snapping the material into place around his skin. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he removed the glove already on his other hand, exposing metallic digits to the air, which he hastily wrapped in latex. He was surprised when Jack said not a peep about what he’d witnessed, Rhys deciding to keep talking before the other man could think too much about it. “I should be fine. Used to handle salads all the time at my—at _Strongfork_ ’s.”

“I’d jump for freakin’ joy, but my back ain’t what it used to be. You’ll just have to leech off the excitement I’m exuding.” 

Unable to help himself, Rhys let out a hearty laugh, biting down on his lip to keep the sound from escaping him a second later. 

“Nah, go on. Have a laugh. It’s about the only one you’ll get in here for the night once we start the real magic.”

“Magic my arse,” Zane muttered from where he was frying up chorizo, obviously intending to be overheard. 

From his place, Jack hummed, didn’t say anything. One of the massive paws he had for hands came down on Rhys’ shoulder. Suddenly, the young chef’s thoughts were winding back to a few minutes ago, Jack declaring Rhys’ sexual worth so loudly and casually Rhys knew it was in violation of at least several codes of ethics. His cheeks felt aflame, and he did everything he could not to squirm under the grip.

“You do good here tonight, kiddo, and I’ll make sure you reap the benefits. Fuck up, and I’ll toss you out on your ass the same way I tossed that pan at Flynt over there. Ya got that?”

Before he could even think about it, Rhys was nodding, willing his cheeks to cool. 

“Yes, chef,” he muttered, Jack nodding as well at the respectful tone.

“Right,” the head chef said. “First orders should be coming in. You best be good at memorization, cos I don’t like to fucking repeat myself.”

With that, Jack’s hand slid away, lingering just one last moment. Then the chef was gone, returning to his counter space.

Rhys inhaled a great lungful of air, picked up his knife, and steeled himself.

xxx

“One rare special, one confrit, garlic mashed, honey veggies, one Salata de Pony, one pear and goat salad!” Jack was shouting.

Standing in front of the fridge, Rhys ran his sleeve against his bare brow. His hair was swept back, tucked under a borrowed bandanna. Borrowed, or rather his now, considering kitchen regulations. The head chef had barked at him about his loose hair. When Rhys just gave him a furrowed brow, Jack had chewed him out about Opportunity’s kitchen regulation reform. In the face of it, anybody handling raw food that wasn’t to be cooked had to be wearing gloves and keep their hair back if it were anything more than cut short. Rhys knew about the laws. He also had no clue he’d be at the salad station that day. So when Jack came over and smacked him in the chest with a package that was labeled with a big, bright **.99** sticker, he was surprised but not confused.

“Next time come prepared, kiddo,” the man had said, his voice edged in annoyance barely held in check. “I know you come from The Casa and all, but this ain’t one of them test kitchens. This is the real deal. Get with it or get out.”

No raised voice, nothing really derogatory. Rhys was more shocked by that than anything else. He noticed both Athena and Zane watching the exchange, neither of their expressions particularly readable. Maybe one or both of them was waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak; for Jack to rip and tear into the _FNG_ and turn him into nothing but a pulpy mess of frayed emotions currently cowering in the fetal position on the kitchen floor.

None of that had happened. In terms of intimidating, Jack was such to the utmost extent. The young chef, however, wasn’t so easily deterred from his ambitions. Just because his new boss was built like a middle-weight champion and had already shown his darker side by throwing a momentary tantrum didn’t mean he was ready to tuck his tail between his legs and scurry out the door. Far from it. It only instilled a sense that he had to succeed at what he was doing here.

And so far, he was accomplishing just that. As he grabbed the necessary ingredients from the fridge and snatched up a room temperature pear, he glanced over his shoulder. The kitchen was in full swing, neck deep in the evening’s orders. Not traipsing through the weeds yet. He didn’t know if the restaurant was popular enough anymore that they’d get there. Returning to his station, he added the spring mix lettuces he’d pre-chopped earlier to a fresh plate and cut the pear into quarters. Soft, rich scoops of goat cheese were added, paired with the fruit, a dusting of walnuts he chopped into fine pieces peppered atop it all. He finished off with a drizzling of raspberry vinaigrette, reaching over to his burner and switching it on as he did. He let garlic slivers crackle and pop in olive oil, then tossed in his artichoke hearts. Salata de Pony was the easiest salad on his list; just a house salad with traditional vegetables like tomatoes and onions dressed up with some cheese and the heated artichokes. Once both salads were prepared, he placed them at the expediting station, catching Jack’s gaze. The chef stared at him, one corner of his mouth edging toward a half-grin. He went back to cooking his steak after a moment.

As it turned out, Timothy was not just the busboy, but also the dishwasher. It must have been slow times for the Pony if they didn’t even have a separate dishwasher. The twin came in with a bin of dishes, which he immediately set to scrubbing clean. It was noticeable that he barely interacted with anyone, though it wasn’t like anyone had time to stop and chat during dinner hours, anyway. Rhys was wiping down his counter for the next order that came in when the man stopped beside him on his way back out to the dining room. 

“How you doing?” he asked in a low voice, trying not to be overheard, surprising Rhys.

“Ehm, alright, I guess,” he answered, eyes flickering to Jack. The other man had stopped what he was doing, hands crossing over his chest. “Alright as I can on my first evening.”

“Hope my brother isn’t giving you too much grief. He’s, well, not really different, but not really himself either today. Likely he’s probably being a real dick to you. And being a big freakin’ baby. I heard the noise before.”

From across the room, a sharp clearing of a throat. “Tim,” came a flat, even voice. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Tim said, addressing his twin. “I’ll get back to work.” Dropping his voice, to Rhys he said: “Things get too uncomfortable for you in here, come to me. I’ll deal with it.”

Then the man was off, ferrying a water decanter to the front of the house. The door swung open a minute, and Rhys realized how quiet the dining room had gotten. There must not have been many diners there, and it appeared the woman who’d been singing had taken a break. Moving to the doorway, Rhys took a moment to peek through the window. He knew he probably shouldn’t, but this was to be his working gig for a year or more, and he wanted to know what exactly he was dealing with even if it was on a slow night.

Two tables were taken up, one of them not even full. It was early, but a total of six diners was an outrageously paltry amount for Jack’s type of restaurant. The bartender that Rhys really didn’t like and the wait staff were shuffling about, appearing bored and uninvested. There was one elegant woman at the bar, sitting with one hand keeping her head propped up. He recognized her as the one that had been singing.

The sight was disturbing to Rhys, so he pulled away from the window, slightly shaken up. No wonder Mr. Blake had never emerged from the office to help with expediting. There was no reason for Jack not to be able to handle it on his own. They were slower than that one night a blizzard had derailed the plans of _Strongfork_ ’s reservees and Rhys had to spend the night in the restaurant, getting drunk and trading stories with his co-workers, unable to make it home in the snow, which had reached almost two feet by morning.

Perhaps Rhys would have pondered _The Diamond Pony_ and celebrity chef Jack Wolfbaine’s fall from grace more if there hadn’t been a loud bang sounding from the back of the kitchen followed by a stream of colorful swears. At first, Rhys thought it had been Mr. Blake, though he doubted the man had a mouth quite like that. A moment later, Troy stumbled into the kitchen, trying to rub his knee without stopping his momentum.

He stopped cold, however, once he saw Rhys standing at the salad station.

“The fuck is this?” he demanded to nobody particularly. “Someone put the fucking new guy at my place? The hell you doing me dirty like that for, man?”

“More like doing you a favor, Calypso,” Jack spoke up, setting aside the cell phone he’d been checking. His eyes didn’t leave its screen. “And for the record, _I_ put him there myself. So if you have an issue, you take it up with me, ‘kay?”

“Oh, say what? You’re kidding, chef. Right?”

“Do I joke about kitchen matters, like, ever?”

“Not really. But you’ve pulled fast ones on me before. How am I to know you’re not messing with me right now?”

“Troy, you are fucking getting on my one, final nerve, and it’s just barely hanging on by a thread.” Closing his eyes, Jack rubbed at his temples, grabbed his phone. He crossed to the taller man, his head jerking away as he got closer. “Goddam it, you smell like a pot farm on fire. Who the hell even does wussy drugs like pot anymore, anyway?”

“Get a few rods surgically implanted into your back and your arm ripped from your body, and you’d be singing it praises for the daily pain relief.”

“Pain killing.” Jack snorted, glancing at his phone once more. “They fucking hacked up my face, those butcher doctors. I was _months_ in recovery, and not once did I smoke or ingest a single marijuana product. I managed just fine.”

“Sure liked them pain pills though, chef,” Zane said, clearly undeterred form calling Jack out on his shit. “I recollect that we had to ween ya off ‘em like a babe from a teet.”

“Who wouldn’t? It’s like going on a bender without the hangover.” Without looking away from his phone, Jack’s tone took on a dangerous edge, crawling towards the rearing of his earlier temper. “Seriously, you guys. Cut it out. Even you, Flynt. I don’t have the fuckin’ patience right now. Next person that says anything gets sent home.”

Nobody said a word, Rhys poised at his station, half-turned and afraid even to breathe. Eventually he realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a rush, worried Jack was about to toss him out on his ass. The chef did no such thing, not even paying attention to him. Instead, he was having some low, whispered conversation with Troy now. His finger pecked at his phone as he did.

“Gotta go have a private meeting with my salad scene boy,” Jack addressed the room once they’d broken their huddle. “I’ll be in the basement. Don’t come and get me unless the kitchen’s burning down.” To Troy, he said, “Come on, ya salad-wielding burnout. I ain’t got all night.”

“Oh ya best be feckin’ kiddin’ me, Jack,” Zane piped up, tossing down his saute spoon where it rattled against the counter top. “Ya gonna leave me hangin’ ‘ere on me own durin’ supper rush? M’gonna have to bloody expedite, keep my eye on Rhys, and run this kitchen on me own when it ain’t my time to do so?”

“Athena will help Rhys if he needs it.”

“And whose gonna do ‘er bloody feckin’ job?”

“Ain’t no rush, if you haven’t noticed. Her station’ll be fine without her for a bit. I’ll send Blake in anyway. He’ll keep it all smooth as a baby’s bum for ya.”

“More like smooth as a geriatrics’s bollocks.”

With a cluck of his tongue, Jack shook his head. “What have I said about having those kind of opinions in _my_ kitchen before?”

“Christ on a bike, Jack. Fine. Go on. Have ya wankery. None of us lot are goin’ nowhere, anyway.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Looking up from his phone, teeth bared, Jack donned the largest, most obnoxious shit-eating grin. “If Troy ain’t back in a half hour, just wait longer.”

The kitchen seemed to hold its collective breath. At least until the pair had disappeared and were out of earshot. Then it was as if the room itself had relaxed at once, the tension in the air slowly dissipating.

From the back of the kitchen, a deep voice spoke, nearly startling Rhys. Wilhelm rarely had anything to say, but apparently that had changed.

“He’s gonna fuck him,” he said in his typical deadpan.

It started with a chortle. Zane tried to hold it in, his shoulders hunching, body shaking. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing, the boisterous sound seeming to fill the room, going on and on; so long, in fact, that it had Wilhelm chuckling along soon enough. Which was just about the surrealist thing Rhys had witnessed in the kitchen thus far. Considering he hadn’t even completed his day yet, that was saying something. The young chef looked on at the two laughing men, not even realizing his mouth was agape. He couldn’t quite fathom his own emotions, either. Incredulity, surely. Utmost surprise. Disbelief. Wilhelm couldn’t be even close to the truth with that statement…could he?

“Troy isn’t his type,” Athena butted in, the words matter-of-fact as she made short, quick slices to the food she was preparing. “Calm yourselves. We’re supposed to be professionals here.”

That only seemed to make the pair laugh harder, great guffaws spilling from them as if they were a couple of braying donkeys. Rhys just shook his head at the display, came over to Athena’s side and began to slice a checkerboard pattern in an avocado half she had laid out before her.

“Need a hand?” he offered, trying to sound calm and centered.

The woman gestured to her array of vegetables. “These need to be diced for the pico de gallo.”

“On it,” Rhys said, finishing up with the pattern in the avocado. He flipped it over and peeled back the skin, the pieces tumbling out one by one, already diced. An onion was snatched up next. Rhys set to work, making perfect slices of the pungent vegetable.

Behind them, Zane and Wilhelm’s amusement carried on for quite some time.


	5. Chapter 5

The impact of Jack’s fist against the solid weight of the punching bag made Troy grunt. Between both hand and hook, he held it steady, leaning into it for added weight. Sweaty and wild-eyed, Jack pummeled the jangling equipment, gloved fists thudding out a one, two rhythm. Sometimes it became three quick jabs, sometimes a kick. Each time a foot came flying up, Troy flinched, nearly letting go and jumping back.

“What’s the point of taking vows,” Jack was spitting out, voice nothing but grit, “if you’re just going to end up breakin’ ‘em? Hell, why even get married at all? You’ll never keep your word.” The chef stepped back, taking several heaving breaths. “It’s all bullshit, Calypso. Fucking bullshit that the dumdum masses shovel down their ugly throats to make them feel better about their pointless, insignificant lives.”

“Shit,” Troy said, pulling a pair of headphones from his pocket. “Never seen you like this before, bossman. That blow must’ve been fire.”

“Ain’t the coke, you nimrod. Though now that ya gone and mentioned it, m’already crashing.” 

A small vial was removed from Jack’s pants pocket, the fine white powder within tipped out on to the back of his hand. He huffed it up his nose, sniffing and swiping at his face as he tilted his head back. Then he made his way over to a stack of rice sacks, legs giving out, ass parking atop them. His hands came up to cradle his head, one mitt snarling in his hair. On a shelf nearby sat his phone. He snatched it away.

“My old lady’s walking out on me, Troy. Taking me for everything I’m worth. I’m over a barrel with my ass exposed.”

“Uh-huh,” Troy answered, placing his headphones in his ears. An object in his pocket was subsequently fiddled with. After a moment, distant, tinny sounds could be heard coming from the buds. The young man left the punching bag behind to lean against a shelf full of dry goods and jars of preservatives, head bobbing along to the music. “You married a long time?”

“Long enough for it to feel like I’m being doinked without any lube.”

A lazy, dreamy grin crossed Troy’s features. “Didn’t know you were into that, man.”

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

Suddenly Jack’s phone dinged. His pinpoint eyes narrowed at the screen.

**Hey, just got back from class. It’s a little hard to understand your messages. Did something happen at the restaurant?**

In a heartbeat, Jack was typing back furiously.

**Nah pump[kin nooothing like thst. Loook we rwally need to talk. Its pqetty important. Do you have a gopd time tonight I could call oyu?**

**Jeez, dad, are you drunk? Please don’t call me if you’re drunk or high. You know how that makes me feel.**

**No its just thsi stupid new phone. It’s to small for my hansds. Whatever. WHen cna I call?**

**Not tonight. I’ve got this big test tomorrow morning I need to go study for after dinner. It’s in Business Management. Which I hate btw. So I’m pretty sure I won’t be taking over for you anytime soon or displacing Mr. Blake. How urgent is this important topic?**

**Prwetty much a five alarm afgire. Youre stepmom’s leaving me.**

There was a long pause before the next message came through. Jack waited with all the patience of a man who’d lost track of time and was floating in an abyss devoid of it. When he saw the next message, his heart sunk into the acidic depths of his stomach. 

**What? Are you serious right now?! How could you come out and tell me that like this? I just said I have a test tomorrow, and you just blurt that out? Why do you always do this to me, dad?**

**I’m so sorry puimpkin. I didn’t mean to just say it like that. Just try not to think about it. It;s fine. ZI;m, handlinmg it.**

**I’m sure that’s not true. And you weren’t saying it, you were typing, so you had plenty of time to think before hitting the send button. I can’t handle this right now. I’m sorry. I’m turning my phone off until tomorrow.**

From there, Jack knew it was futile to send another message. True to her word, Angel would turn her phone off entirely. There’d be no getting through to her until the next day unless he called the college directly and declared it an emergency. That was drastic even for him. He supposed he could just call one of her friends, but even that seemed too extreme right now. Fuck. Things had suddenly become so embroiled in real world drama it had brought him down from his high. Otherwise he’d be phoning every goddam friend of her’s he had in his contacts. Which was really all of one. Some girl named Gaige who he wasn’t about to make an even bigger ass of himself with on the phone.

Taking out his vial again, Jack gave himself a bump, sitting in the storage cellar with his damn punching bag, and the salad chef, and a sense that he was surrounded by jagged, broken glass, about to be pierced through with if he got up or moved.

“This is kinda harshing my mellow.” Pushing away from the shelf, Troy straightened to his full height. “I’m gonna head back to the kitchen. Since I went out of my way for you, think you could maybe share a line?”

Eyes bleary, Jack leveled his gaze on the other chef. 

“You’re not seriously asking me that, right?” he said, voice like a knife’s edge, poised to slice into tender bits. “You’re on the clock, Calypso. It’s bad enough you’re stoned out of your gourd.”

“And you’re higher than a motherfucking kite, boss. Not being a very good role model for us underlings there.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve a mind to slap you upside that head of yours. But not tonight. C’mere, I guess.”

Troy was practically skipping over, bouncing on the soles of his shoes like an excited child as Jack set his phone down and laid out a well proportioned line on the screen. He waved the salad chef to it, Troy using a cut straw he’d had in his pocket to snort it up. As he pulled away, he snapped upright like a startled cat, spine absolutely straight, head inclined as he stared at the ceiling for a good few seconds. 

“I think I just came,” he murmured to himself.

Having overheard the words, Jack scowled, stood up and pushed him towards the door.

“If you’re going upstairs, get out already. I’m not in the mood for your weird shit today.”

“Oh, like you don’t think your first line of the day is orgasmic.”

Jack snorted and shoved him. “Somehow I doubt that was your first.”

xxx

When Jack arrived upstairs, his kitchen was in a state of disarray, set to the tune of a rambling rap song that was harshly blaring from a portable radio. At some point, the staff had landed smack dab in the weeds with orders, a small rush and a hiccup in judgment having set them all behind. It wasn’t even the F-N-G’s fault, Jack garnered. Rhys had kept it together fairly well manning the salad station. He chopped with alacrity and precision, plating things without much hesitation. If anything, he was efficient, obviously experienced with his tasks. It was the _actual_ salad chef that was the problem. Still annoyed at the new guy for having taken up his station, Troy was more interested in pissing and moaning at Rhys than doing any work. Zane was yelling at him to _git ‘is arse in line or git out_ , but he chose to simply ignore the reprimendation. Just as Rhys chose to ignore Troy’s ranting in favor of doing his job.

Feeling nothing short of amazing, like he could conquer the world with his bare fists, Jack refused to let the scene or what he deemed a poor choice in music drag him down. He was whistling as he approached his station, shuffling around his _mis en place_ when he got there. 

“Calypso,” he said without raising his voice, the tall chef whipping around. “Go assist Athena before we get stuck further in the weeds. Let Rhys do his work.”

“ _His_ work?” Troy snapped, throwing up both hand and claw. “I dunno if you know this, but _that_ ain’t the station he was assigned to.”

“It is for tonight. Now go on. Let the kid do shit in peace. And turn that radio down.”

Troy’s jaw hung wide, looking like he’d dislocated it. Behind him, Zane snickered.

“Are you seriously kicking me off my own station?”

“Yup. Are you seriously going to try to argue with me?”

For a moment, it looked like Troy would. But then he clucked his tongue and shot Rhys the filthiest look, all snarl and glare. Like a dog tucking its tail between its legs, he retreated to go work alongside Athena, not daring to shoot _her_ any moody looks. The salad chef knew his place among the hierarchy of the kitchen staff. Besides, _nobody_ messed with Athena. Or so it seemed.

“Right, so I’m in a completely euphoric mood right now,” Jack spoke up, addressing the entire kitchen. “If one of you messes that up for me? My god, we’re gonna have words.”

The staff seemed to take the message to heart. The rest of the evening flowed by with all the smoothness and grace of a calm forest stream, each member of the crew working like the separate parts of a single mechanism. Like some great beating heart pumping blood to the extremities of the restaurant, they toiled en masse, even Troy shutting his mouth about Rhys’ treatment and throwing himself into the fray. They waded through the thickest part of the weeds, which, with Jack back at the helm, didn’t turn out to be as insurmountable as they’d deemed earlier. 

And when they emerged on the other side, Jack seemed positively ecstatic, more upbeat than Rhys had seen him yet. Zane was beaming, Wilhelm looking pleased, if someone such as him could look such a way. Even Athena seemed to be stricken by the feeling, and _she_ seemed like the type who was poised with a permanent scowl. As for Troy, Rhys assumed he was pleased with himself, if his behavior was anything to go on. A low tune whistled from his lips, his hand flitting about ramikens like a quick and nimble insect as he helped plate dinner specials. His hook, he used with a cleverness born of familiarity. It made Rhys conscious of his own hand, which he glanced at more than a few times during his salad making as if checking it was still there, cradled in its glove. 

It was almost ten o’clock when the last order came in. The restaurant closed at ten, but often, in a popular establishment, that meant orders could carry up to an hour or more later. Rhys was sort of relieved that they wouldn’t be there until midnight, but also a little crestfallen. Being a fan of chef Jack Wolfbaine, he’d read and studied about the legendary dinner services at _The Diamond Pony_. The ingredients were the freshest Opportunity had to offer, the recipes the most exotic and rare. Wild were the concoctions, some of them simply genius in their insanity. There was no doubt Jack was one of the most talented chefs in the world and could pack a house if he tried.

So Rhys found himself wondering once more just how it had come to be that they could wind down at closing time on the dot in the kitchen. It was…disturbing. Even _Strongfork’s_ didn’t wrap it up by closing time most days.

“Another night in the bag, guys and girl.” Jack’s voice was effervescent, carrying through the kitchen on drawn out notes as if the man was about to burst into song. “You all ready to get the hell out of this place?”

There was a rising murmur of positive responses, Troy breaking it with a wild hoot.

“Cocktails down at The Haven, eh, how about it?” he asked, looking around. He dutifully ignored Rhys, which the young chef was fine with. It had been a long day. Drinks sounded like a whole nother headache to contend with. “Half-priced till midnight. Hump day special, so you can get your hump on.”

Rhys had to fight every muscle and tendon in his body not to outwardly cringe. 

“Think you already took care of that,” Wilhelm muttered from the back. It was still loud enough to be overheard.

Troy tilted his head at him and said, “Er…huh? I don’t get it. The hell you playing at, Willy?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, I’m all up fer it,” Zane said, hanging pots and ladles back on their hooks. “Feck knows it’s been a day. Wilhelm’s taggin’ along too, or m’draggin’ his arse there. Ax’ll probably want to git himself piss drunk as always. Should see if the other girls want to join.”

“If I’m goin’, Ty’s goin’. And Ty’ll definitely poke Amara into it, considering the way she’s been acting around her lately. Sis’ got it _bad_.”

“Count me out,” Athena said, wiping down her counter with a rag before turning to Troy. “I’ve no use for your discount rotgut in fancy glasses designed to attract others and lure them to bed.”

A shrug from Troy. “I’m so very sorry that you’re monogamous and boring.”

“Yer callin’ Athena a bore?” Zane was already unbuttoning his chef’s whites as he came around his station, a tank top with a dusting of silver hair above the neckline revealed. “Yer got some real bollocks there, boyo. Yer lucky she don’t go brutal on yer arse and press yer mug into the grill fer that.”

As if on cue, Athena mimed grabbing him by the head and holding him down against the grill top. With a loud gulp, Troy held up a hand as if to ward her off.

“It was just a joke,” he said, voice getting high, panic creeping in. “Janey is the coolest. You’re real lucky to have a girl like that.”

With a shake of her head, Athena just sneered at him and turned away, reaching to untie her apron. 

“I’ll take up the torch for Athena,” a voice volunteered. It took several moments for most of the kitchen staff to realize it was Jack that had spoken up. “Been too fuckin’ long since I’ve managed to get out with all of you. Too busy with…stuff. But goddam if I don’t need it tonight. Sign me up.”

Zane, Wilhelm, and Troy all looked at Jack as if he’d grown to monstrous proportions and was currently trashing the kitchen. Even Athena was staring, confusion etched in her features. Being a new guy had its disadvantages, and one was that Rhys had no idea what was so shocking about Jack apparently just wanting a drink.

“Ya mean yer actually gonna tag along with us tonight?” Zane was questioning, incredulity laced in his voice. “As in go round the pub and raise a pint with us lowly staff? Well, ain’t I just tickled pink. Yer not being a cute hoor with this, are ye? No funny business, right?” 

“The fuck kinda _funny business_ could I possibly be planning by going to The Haven with you guys, of all places?”

“Dunno,” Troy chimed in. “Maybe looking to see who acts like the biggest asshole tonight and ends up embarrassing you, then deciding to terminate their employment. Or replace them with F-N-G over there.”

“Stop being a butthurt little shit, gimpy. I don’t care how you act outside of work hours. And I’m not interested in replacing no one right now. Not unless you piss me off with some stupid ass reason like you’re doing right now. I warned you already about your bullshit. Don’t push me, or I really _will_ give salads to Rhysie there.”

“Alright, can everyone just stop with the gimpy nickname already? I don’t even know why the hell you guys call me that. It’s not like I’m hobbled or nothing.”

“Try me. And fine, we’ll just all start calling you chickenwing. Which you’re telling me, in so many words, that you prefer.” 

With a deep, snarling breath, Troy breathed out, “Are you honestly fucking—I don’t even have words right now.”

“Good. Then shut it before you put your ass on the fire.” Jack took a deep breath and slid his arms out of his chef’s coat, folding it up and draping it over his forearm. “It’s settled though. M’comin’ with you all. We’re gonna have a nice evening out, all of us who want to join. For Rhysie over there, it’s mandatory.”

As if snapping awake at last, Rhys turned away from his cleaning of the salad counter and unfurled to his full height. “Wh-what?” he declared. “I can’t—I’ve got to get home and feed my cat and check on some things. It’s only my first day. I don’t even really know any of you that well.”

“You survived the night and you came out unscathed. That shows guts, kid, and I like to see people who can withstand the onslaught their first day. You’re gonna fit real good here, I can feel it. And my chef’s instincts are never wrong.” Disappearing into the office area for a few moments, Jack re-emerged wearing a different shirt, more casual yet also more elegant, in a way. He looked like he was about to go clubbing in his simple button down rather than enjoy a few drinks at the bar. He’d donned jeans instead of chef’s slacks, the material snug against the thin, streamlined shapes of his legs. Rhys couldn’t help but appreciate how fit and attractive he looked in them, maybe staring a bit longer than he intended. “Besides, what better way to get to know us then to hang with us after hours, see how we _really_ are?”

“That, uhm, actually sounds…ominous?”

Coming around the kitchen, Jack patted Rhys on the back with the palm of his hand, a gesture that seemed both intimate and innocent at the same time. The young chef didn’t know how to process the mixed feelings it invoked, the slight intrigue and the dueling need for Jack to stop touching him, and decided to let it slide in the process. 

“Points for honesty. But seriously. You’re coming, no arguments. Go get out of that apron and get changed if you brought spare stuff.”

“I didn’t. I had no idea—”

“No sweat. I bet Blake has some street clothes for you. The Haven isn’t fancy by a long shot, but we want you to be comfortable.”

Troy muttered something under his breath that sounded like _speak for yourself_ , but Rhys couldn’t be sure. 

“Go on into the office. Blake’ll join you and get you sorted.”

For the first time, Rhys realized that Mr. Blake was in fact still in the kitchen with them. Standing in a corner, buffing his nails on his expensive shirt and studying them, he’d probably never left. That made a lot more sense to Rhys than Blake being in the office the entire time Jack had changed. Otherwise their working relationship would have been a lot odder. They seemed close, but not _that_ close.

With a heaving sigh, Rhys allowed himself to slump, the rest of his torso crumpling into a slouch. His entire body was screaming out in protest against a late night bar crawl, even if it was just one bar they’d be hitting. If he were to be back here the next day (which, if he were being honest, might not be a guarantee), he didn’t want to be going hard on the drinks. And he knew himself enough to know that cocktails could be a proverbial Pandora’s Box for him. Rarely did he stop at one, usually falling into the dark and raucous pit of three or even more when the stress was reaching its boiling point. Which it nearly was.

Still, he nodded, resigning himself to a fate he understood he couldn’t withstand. Dragging ass, he made his way to the office, ready to endure whatever un-preferred clothing was waiting for him just so he could appease his boss. 

Damn, the things he did to further his career.

xxx

As far as dive bars went, The Haven was probably on the more presentable end of the spectrum. Above its darkened door, a neon sign declaring its name complete with a shape of a lounging person surprisingly not striking a sexy pose hung in a shade of vibrant red. The windows were as dark and opaque as the front door, impossible to see into. But there was a neon flamingo with a pair of sunglasses staring out from one of them. The sign looked etched into the glass itself.

On the sidewalk, Troy and Jack stood perched, Jack swiping a pair of cigarettes from his salad chef’s pack with greedy fingers, tucking one into his breast pocket and lighting up the other. The two stood there smoking on the curb like a couple of teenagers soaking up the warm air on the last night of summer break, wary of the coming days, desperate to hang on to the last few hours of freedom. A woman on the rather short side with a shock of white hair came up beside Troy and pinched him, snickering as he yelped and nearly dropped his cigarette. She was the singer Rhys had seen earlier, the one with the golden voice he’d had to pry himself away from listening to.

“What the fuck, Ty?” Troy snapped at her, which only made her laugh some more. “Keep your filthy paws to yourself.”

“Are you calling me dirty?” she asked, sounding outraged. The wide grin on her face spoke otherwise. She rose up on her tiptoes, gave him a slap to the head, which caused him to wince and yelp once more. “That’s no way to talk to your sister, chewtoy.”

“Aw, man, I told you not to call me that in public.”

Sister? Rhys looked Ty over, recalling that Troy had mentioned a sister briefly back at the restaurant. He could see the resemblance, now that he looked them over. They weren’t exactly cut from the same cloth, but it was there. 

“Why not?” Ty asked him in a deceptively innocent tone. “Is it damaging your fragile little ego? _Oh, no, everyone pushes me around, and I absolutely let them._ ”

“Tyreen!”

Jack let out a laugh, nudging the taller Calypso with his elbow. “Your sis does a pretty good impression of ya, chickenwing.”

“Don’t call me _that_ either!”

“Oi, boyo, you comin’ with or what?”

At the entrance to The Haven stood Zane, Wilhelm at his side, the door cracked open. Even that small gap let a blast of chilled air wander outside, carrying with it the clatter and clack of bottles coupled with some intense electronic music and an uproarious mingling of voices. Zane parted the door further to let Axton duck inside.

A buff woman with long, flowing dark hair followed behind him but paused before entering. Rhys only knew her from seeing her ferrying plates from the kitchen to the dining room all night, but had not caught her name. If he’d heard it, it hadn’t stuck.

“Are you ready to venture inside yet, Tyreen?” she called, voice slightly accented, more polite than anyone Rhys had met so far yet. Well, save for maybe Axton. That man exuded good cheer.

Perking up, the other woman scrambled away from her brother, heels clacking on the pavement in quick succession, hips swaying widely in her ripped jeans. She wore a sports bra with a waist-length leather coat, and she held herself with the air of someone making a fumbling attempt at seduction, chest thrust out, face painted with a lazy smirk. Her eyes never left the muscular woman, and Rhys thought he understood, but couldn’t be sure.

“Only if you are,” Tyreen told the other woman, her eyes going to half-mast as she tilted her head at her. “I don’t want to step foot in that shithole without a strong girl like you at my side.”

“What about me?” Axton asked, apparently having not strayed far yet as he stuck his head out from behind the door, a grin plastered on his features. “Don’t I count?”

“Not unless you’re a woman,” Tyreen said. “And in that case, then, is there something you’d like to confess to us all?”

The man laughed and shook his head, waving the comment off. “I’m plenty comfy in my own skin, darling, thanks.”

“That’s what I thought.” Looping her arm around Amara’s, Tyreen all but dragged the other woman forward, Axton jumping out of the way at the last minute to let them pass. They disappeared into the darkened interior, the female Calypso’s laughter rising up and drifting out the door. 

About that time, Jack chucked the butt of his cigarette into the street and turned towards where Zane was still holding the door. 

“I need to take a leak,” he commented, pushing past where Rhys stood, hurrying into the bar.

“Yeah, er…so do I,” Troy chimed in. “All of a sudden.”

Jack whipped his head around to glare at the salad chef. But then he made a sound of dismissal and nodded towards the bar’s interior, continuing on. Troy scrambled behind him like a puppy chasing after its master.

So silent as to be overlooked, it was just Tim left with Rhys and Zane now. The quieter twin turned to them, shaking his head.

“You know what he’s going to do, right?” he asked, wearing an expression of utter despair. “Sure I ain’t the only one here.”

“Yer right about that,” Zane spoke up. “Problem is I’ve no idea what ye expect us to do about it. If he can’t be buggered to listen to you, he ain’t gonna be buggered to listen to us lot.”

“Yeah. But maybe—”

“Mebbe nothin’. I came to have meself a pint and relax with me mates. Just git inside, will ye? I ain’t feelin’ like holdin’ this door all night.”

“Al—alright.”

Hands in his pockets, Tim hunched his shoulders and ducked inside. He glanced at Wilhelm, who sighed and unfolded his arms, stomping in behind him.

“Ye gonna stand out here all night, boyo?” Zane asked Rhys. “Suit yeself.”

Shaking his head, Rhys dashed past the threshold, the humid air dispersing immediately in the face of cool air conditioning, the heat swallowed down the gullet of the low lit bar that yawned before him. There were booths stitched in black leather, pool tables in the back. The bar itself was a dark oak lined with stools bolted directly into the wooden flooring, the scuffs and scratch marks visible even from a distance. Against the wall, an old fashioned jukebox was playing some lowfi, bass-centric music. It made Rhys relax despite himself, the chilled beats worming their way into his head, causing his thoughts to slow to a crawl. He saw the restaurant crew had taken up the biggest table towards the back, slipping into the ‘U’ shaped vinyl seat, some bellying up to the bar instead. Tyreen had Amara by the arm still, was flagging down the bartender. Tim was settling next to Axton, Wilhelm taking root next to him, oblivious to the side eyeing Tim was doing of him. Jack and Troy, of course, were nowhere to be seen. 

A hand clapped Rhys on the back, changed his course from heading to the booth to heading toward the bar. He glanced behind himself to see Zane there, grinning as he guided them.

“F-N-G’s gotta start the festivities right for us,” the older chef told him. “Gotta get ye fluthered. None of that manky horsepiss beer. Ye git treated to the good stuff. Shots on us.”

“What?” Rhys spoke up, shaking his head rapidly. “No. No way. I can’t do _shots_ tonight. Are you nuts? I’ve got to be back in the kitchen tomorrow.”

“Too feckin’ bad. New guy’s gotta down three shots. One for luck, one for prosperity, one to stave off the wickedness of the critics.”

“Shouldn’t that be two, then? Technically the third is sort of like the first, right?”

“Don’t worry, you pick the poison.” 

Dragged to the counter, Troy’s sister turned to stare at Rhys when Zane sat him down on a barstool, giving him a once over.

“I don’t think you and me have officially met,” she said, one hand going to her hip, the other leaning on the bar. “I’m the Pony’s resident torch singer. You might’ve heard me from the kitchen. Tyreen. And who might you be, cutie?”

For a second, Rhys’ jaw hung open, no sound coming out. Then he was stumbling over his own name.

“Aw, Rhys, that’s a cute name,” Tyreen repeated, gesturing beside her. “This is Amara.”

“Sorry I didn’t introduce myself sooner,” Amara said, her tone serious. “I saw you in the kitchen earlier, but I tend to focus on work when at the restaurant, and I did not think it an ideal time for introductions.”

“That’s fine,” Rhys informed her, smiling warmly. “I can understand professionalism in a kitchen setting.”

“It is good to know that you take your job seriously.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rhys saw Troy making his way over to the jukebox, his footsteps hurried, as if someone had pumped him full of engine fuel. He leaned up against the machine, hook hand braced against the wall as he perused the digital library with the other. Rhys was just wondering what might’ve been keeping Jack if Troy had already finished up when a body shoved its way in-between him and Zane. It wasn’t tricky to catch the soured look that passed over Amara’s features.

“Heya Rhysie, Flynt.” In the lack of natural light, Jack’s heterochromatic eyes were glowing like polished jewels, vibrating in his skull with unrestrained energy. His teeth were clenched together, lips peeled into a rictus that made him look manic. “Indulging in the traditional ‘new guy’ shots? Hope ya saved some for your boss.”

“Boyo hasn’t picked what he’s drinking yet,” Zane said, making a sweeping gesture towards the bar. “Takin’ his sweet arse time, he is.” 

“Issat right? Care if I make a suggestion, then?”

A shrug from Rhys. “I’m not much of a drinker. Go for it.”

“You mind at all, ladies?”

Both Amara and Tyreen shook their heads, the latter perking up, her lip quirking into a half grin. “Go ahead, boss,” she told him. 

“Always knew you more sensible than your brother.” With a snap of his fingers, Jack had the bartender’s attention, albeit probably not earning points towards his good side, considering the glare he shot their way. The look quickly subsided as he seemed to recognize who he was being called over by. “Gimme a round of Irish car bombs for the table there.” Jack pointed it out. “Just make it an even ten. Three rounds. That makes thirty altogether, ‘kay?” To Zane, he said, “Sorry, Flynt. You’ll just have to live with us Opportunity folks bastardizing your culture and turning it villainous.”

Rolling his eyes, Zane shook his head. “It were probably one of me own that dreamed it into existence, Jackie boy. I ain’t the kind of soul that gives a flyin’ feck.” 

Suddenly, without warning, the room was filling with hard beats and rapid, harsh words, a jaunty backbeat undercutting everything as a voice rapped about acquiring all the drugs, liquor, and ladies in the vicinity. Troy was singing along under his breath as he approached, his head bobbing in time with the rhythm as he asked what was going on.

“We’re about to get this party started in honor of Rhys’ first day,” Jack informed him, slipping away to head towards the table.

The look on Troy’s face suddenly became annoyed. 

“Aw, don’t look so glum. Just cos he took over salads this evening ain’t no reason to pout.”

“I ain’t pouting.” 

Jack snickered. “Sure. Come sit your ass down. That goes for all of you. Let them serve us. It won’t kill ‘em.”

“Oh, you sure?” Rhys asked, eyeing the bartender, who seemed to be becoming increasingly annoyed. “Because it doesn’t exactly look like they appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo. Relax. Take a load off. You did well today.”

“I—I did?” Rhys was nearly in shock to hear the words coming from Jack Wolfbaine’s lips, of all people. 

Stopping just shy of shoving Rhys into the booth, Jack didn’t answer even when the younger chef had been seated. He slid into the seat next to him. Rhys was successfully trapped between Wilhelm and Jack (the former of which was being anxiously chatted at by Tim), the rest of the crew taking up the remainder of the seating, Troy parking his ass down last, practically wriggling in his seat with energy. He belted along to the jukebox, Tyreen rolling her eyes at him.

“Someone tell him he should leave the singing to me,” she commented. “He sounds like our neighbor’s cat when it’s in heat. God, it just yowls all night. I never get any sleep.”

Beside her, Amara gave a curt laugh. 

“Yeah, the way you pulled that lunch off,” Jack continued, his reply to Rhys delayed. As he made a circlet with his fingers and smacked his lips against them in a chef’s kiss, the drinks arrived. A waitress set ten half pints of stout beer down in the center of the table followed by ten shotglasses full of a substance that was toffee tinted in color. Almost immediately Jack grabbed a glass of stout and one of the shots. “You know how to do this, Rhysie?”

“Er, a shot? Well, yeah, of course.”

“No,” Jack said pointedly, tilting the pint glass. “Irish car bomb.”

“Can’t say in my years of schooling and working in the restaurant industry I have. What is it?”

“Stout, coffee liqueur, Irish cream, and whiskey. Watch.” The shotglass was held precariously over the pint glass, Jack keeping it steady on the angle. His fingers released the shot, letting it slam into the stout, the rim of foam expanding and morphing into streams that slowly unfurled until they were turning the alcohol into a rich coffee color. Jack tilted the glass to his lips, gulping down a few mouthfuls. “That’s the _shit_. Ya gotta try it.”

“It _sounds_ kinda good,” Rhys said, watching as the others were taking their drinks from the circle. “I suppose it seems pretty harmless.” 

“Oh, it’s anything but,” Jack crowed as Rhys selected his glass of stout and the accompanying shot. “This’ll explode both on your tongue and in ya head. You’ll feel bombed alright.”

“Is this the right way?” Rhys had his glass tilted so that most of the stout had shifted to one side. Jack’s hand came to rest on Rhys’ gloved one, large and warm, guiding the glass closer to an upright position.

“A little less tilt. Good. Now drop the shot in glass and all.”

The shotglass was taken up in three of Rhys’ flesh fingers, dropped when he deemed it close enough to the other liquor. It made a slight splash, the head foaming and spreading like Jack’s drink had. Lingering for a moment, Jack eventually slid his fingers away, licking off the excess liquid that had splashed on to them.

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

He’d had his glass poised at his lips, Rhys, ready to taste the concoction. Instead his head whipped in Jack’s direction, mouth hanging open. The head chef gave a nod of his head towards Rhys’ glove.

“Feels really weird. Not like bone. You sporting fake goods under that glove or what?”

It felt like the booth beneath Rhys’ ass had disappeared, that the floor it was bolted to had opened up into a yawning pit that went on and on into darkness. He was slipping down it, faster and faster, the breaths escaping him becoming staccato. Sweat started to ooze from his pores, his hand swiping it away.

His expression must have betrayed him, because Jack’s hand landed on his shoulder, was shaking him. 

“Kiddo, hey,” came a distant voice. “Hey, Rhysie. You okay there?”

“Wh-what?” Rhys squawked, flinching back. His eyes were wide, panicked.

“Whoa, calm down. It’s alright. You’re in a bar called _The Haven_ with people from _The Diamond Pony_. You’re having a panic attack. There’s nothing wrong. You’re absolutely fine otherwise.”

“I…I what? No, no, you’re wrong. I…I just—you weren’t supposed to find out. At least not now.”

Abandoning his drink, Rhys cradled his gloved hand, holding it protectively to his chest. Pale and sweating, he looked like he was about to be ill. All eyes had fallen on to him, everybody poised in concern save for Troy. The tall Calypso was finishing off the dregs of his drink, a smirk dancing on his lips. He cradled his chin in his hand as he watched Rhys, his amusement at the predicament evident. 

“Find out what? You mean what’s under the glove?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Really?” Sitting back, Jack inclined his head, cigarette pulled from where he’d stashed it earlier in his breast pocket. “So, what you won’t let me see is absolutely nothing. Is that it? You’ve just been wearing that dirty ass glove all day for no reason? That, for the record, I totally didn’t bitch you out about except for that one time.”

A wince from Rhys. His gaze slid down to the hand in question, which was balled into a fist.

“Come on, Rhysie.” The cigarette was slipped between Jack’s lips, lit up. He inhaled, blowing a long, billowing smoke cloud towards the ceiling. “Show me the goods.”


	6. Chapter 6

The muscles in Rhys’ jaw tightened like the joints of his fingers, drawing taught as bowstrings, twitching as if imbued with raw electric energy. The interior of The Haven was beginning to recede around him, imploding in on itself as it wavered like a dream on the edge of sleep. The faces of his co-workers looking on as if he were in possession of a bomb that could blow them all sky high blurred together, became one amorphous mass. Rhys could taste the metallic edge of annoyance at the back of his throat and wanted desperately to spit it right in Jack’s face. He swallowed it down audibly.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” came Troy’s voice, rising up as if exhumed from the grave. It was laced with a smugness reserved for the cat that had caught the canary in expert claws. “Bossman asked you to do something.”

Like a snarling beast defending its territory, Jack bared his teeth at Troy. “If you’re trying to score brownie points with me, you’re shit out of luck.”

The salad chef fell to silence. There were murmurs all around Rhys, though he wasn’t paying them any proper attention. They could be discussing or defending him for all he knew. His fist wavered, the tremors in his arm getting deeper, seized by chaos. He couldn’t get up and leave, and didn’t want to give in to Jack. 

But he knew if he didn’t, there would be a lot more at stake than revealing what was hidden beneath the skin-tight material of his glove. The supple leather creaked as Rhys’ thoughts caused him to tense up even further. On the verge of straining something vital, he had to make a decision. Being blacklisted just wasn’t an option for him. Time spent studying at The Casa, his whole entire life up until this point, would be for naught then.

“Alright, fine,” Rhys finally said, surprised his voice didn’t waver. “You can see it. Just promise you won’t laugh.”

“I can’t promise you nothing,” Jack said, heterochromatic eyes gleaming like stars trailing against the backdrop of space as his gaze fell to Rhys’ gloved appendage. “But if I do, just know I’m being totally polite and apologizing in advance.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Over the course of the evening, Rhys’ sleeves had come undone, tumbling back down to cover his arms to the wrist. In the warm summer air, it would’ve been hard not to notice the extra layer of heat. In the cool air conditioning of the room, however, it was barely noticeable. In fact, when he pushed the sleeve up, he even shivered from the cold gracing him. The glove only ran up to past his elbow, the pale skin that made up the rest of his arm prickled in gooseflesh. Fingers pinched at the leather rim of the glove, peeling it down slowly. Inch by inch, something shiny and metallic was revealed, gleaming as if freshly polished. The glove slid easily down to the wrist, chrome plating clearly visible now, trimmed with fine lines of black silicone. 

As Rhys reached for the glove’s fingers to pluck the garment off entirely, he heard it; curt and vicious as a dog’s bark, emitted from right beside him. Jack, absolutely befittingly, was laughing. At least it wasn’t complete guffaws, but the braying harshness was just as annoying. Slipping the glove the rest of the way off, Rhys threw it down on the table the same way one might slam back a drink. However, it being a lightweight glove, the smack it made against the smooth surface wasn’t half as satisfying.

“Oh my god,” the chef said. “That—that’s what you were worried about me seeing all this time? A fuckin’ robotic arm? Shit, that is way cooler then that doohickey Troy’s got attached to him.”

“Screw you, boss,” Troy said, flipping Jack his middle finger. It only made Jack laugh harder.

“Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” another voice chimed in, adding to the conversation. The surreal vector drawing back from his vision, Rhys saw that it was Wilhelm, leaning over from the other side of the table with curiosity gleaming in his expression. He looked like a fisherman who’d just caught a glimpse of the biggest fish they’d ever laid eyes on. “Don’t recognize it right off the bat, though. What make and model you got there?”

The questions almost felt accusatory, though in Rhys’ rational mind he understood it as curiosity. It was damn near hard to think at the moment, and even more difficult to process anything that was going on around him. He hadn’t even taken a drink, and he felt intoxicated regardless. 

Very suddenly, he needed to be away from the table packed with all of his co-workers; he needed fresh air no matter how humid and cloying it was outside; he needed personal space. Stuck in the middle of the booth, there was no easy way to get it, short of ducking under the table or climbing over people. One option was weighed against the other, the balances swaying and teetering but never settling. Neither plan was dignified or efficient. Rhys supposed he’d have to go about things the most direct way.

“Excuse me,” he said to Jack. “Could you maybe…let me out?”

Settling down, the man turned to fully face him, his lips settling into a disquieting smile. 

“You want to leave?” he asked, taking up one of the mixed shots and hoisting it to his lips. The movement was choppy, the liquid spilling over the rim of the glass and hitting the table with a series of **plip plip** sounds. “Like, seriously, right now?”

It was by sheer will that Rhys kept himself from shouting. “I suddenly don’t feel so well and need some air. Can I please get by?”

“Only if you let me escort you. Come on, can’t let you go out into the streets of Opportunity on your lonesome. What kind of boss would I be, then?”

“A perfectly normal one, I’d say.” 

“You’re breaking my heart, kiddo.”

“Please don’t call me kiddo.”

“I call everyone kiddo.”

“Well, I’d prefer if you didn’t use it with me. Are you going to let me get by or what?”

“So, you’re going to displace people who are just sitting down minding their own business so you can escape to the outside and thus get away from us? Talk about rude.”

“Alright. I didn’t want to do this. If you won’t let me out, I’ll take the road less traveled.”

Squinting, Jack took a swig of his drink, gulping down the mouthful, Adam’s Apple bobbing noisily. He wiped at his lips with his knuckles, his head shaking with a languidness born of arrogance. “You don’t have the balls to pull it off, Rhys. No offense.”

Did he? Doing something this stupid could cost him his job. The brand new job he’d been just dying to get. Then again, Jack seemed to be goading him into it, pushing all the right buttons to pull the strings for it to happen. The chef couldn’t possibly be so eager to fire the FNG when it seemed his kitchen was being held up with pure grit, bailing wire, and a lot of prayers. Surely he needed to keep Rhys employed to ensure his ship’s many, many holes were kept manageable. Otherwise the whole vessel might sink into the sea, remaining buried at the bottom like tarnished treasure stowed away for eternity.

As if he was submerging in those aforementioned waters, Rhys took a deep breath, held it cradled deep in his chest. The electric impulses running rampant beneath his skin drove his muscles to action. He slid his butt forward in the seat, gripping the table. 

Then he was pushing himself downward, knees striking the floor as he scrambled across it, trying not to think what the dark, greasy puddles or tacky substances were that lie beneath. He emerged on the other side, popping his head up to see that all eyes at the table were focused on him. It was jarring and unnerving all at once, like a ball made of spiked tendrils designed to fray his nerves.

“The feck is wrong wit ye, boyo?” Zane piped up, slamming his glass down on the table. The sound of hard glass pounding solid wood rang out, loud and echoing. Thankfully the glass itself didn’t crack and fall into a pile of damp shards. “Why’d ya go and listen to that eejit arseface like that? On’t let ‘im push ye around.”

“Shut it, boomer,” Troy answered, smirking. “Kid’s doing the smart thing, trying to impress the boss. Stop trying to sabotage him and let him keep doing it.”

“Oy, who ye calling boomer, ya tosser. And whatcha tellin’ Rhys that for? Ye git the boss off his face everyday on a rake of sneachta and then you go feckin’ with the new blood like yer the bloody Queen of Sheba. It’s feckin’ vexin’.”

“Hey.” The voice came from Tyreen, who’d been quietly drinking her liquor. She set the glass down daintily, not a drop being spilled, and leaned against the table, folding her arms atop it. Her crystal blue eyes were lidded when she looked at Zane, her mouth twisted into a cruel semblance of a smirk. “Who exactly do you think you are, talking to my brother that way? Are you looking to start a fight or what?” 

“Whom’s talkin’ to whom like what now, lassie?”

Thinking it was a good time to slip away before a fight broke out, Rhys smoothed down the wrinkles in his shirt and turned on his heel. Honestly, if these were going to be his coworkers for a year, he didn’t want any part of their melodrama. He was at _The Diamond Pony_ to work and get his kitchen hours under his belt so the culinary world would take him seriously, not trade gossip and exchange a few blows in the process. As he was making his way to the exit, a shrill whistle made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Somehow he knew who’d made the sound before he’d even turned around.

“Rhysie,” Jack called from his place in the booth, shouting over the raised and heated voices of his subordinates. Like snarling packs of rival wolves, the stared each other down, snapping harsh words back and forth. “You’re on for tomorrow. Be primed and ready when you come in at noon.”

Tilting his head, Rhys took a moment to decipher the chef’s tone, a strangely calm feeling washing over him. It was gone in an instant, the only feeling left in him one of a sense of duty. Obviously he didn’t owe Jack or the Pony anything. However, Rhys was well aware of the concept of obligation, and something in him knew he owed it to the restaurant to try and give it a chance. 

Using his robotic hand, he made a saluting gesture, nodding once to Jack without saying a word. Then he was through the front entrance and out into the cool night air, drifting along the sidewalk in the direction he was sure he’d seen the subway entrance’s location.

XXX

When Rhys entered his garage, which had been converted into a studio apartment attached to his parents’ home, Seamus was waiting for him. The white Persian cat stood pacing in front of the door, yowling as if his life was being threatened. Looking across the room to the empty pet bowl that sat on the printed mat beside the refrigerator, Rhys was pretty sure it was more a case of having run out of food for the day. He hung his keys on the rack beside his front door and padded across to said bowl. A bag of dry cat food was swiped from off the top of the fridge, and Rhys poured a good portion of its contents into the container part of the automatic feeder. At the tip-tapping of spilled kibble, Seamus came running over, a soft _murrrrup_ escaping him before he dove face first into the trough, shoveling up a mouthful of food. The sounds of crunchy contentment soon followed. Stroking the cat’s back once and giving him a scritch on the butt, Rhys was smiling as he finally fished out his phone and saw that he had several new voicemails.

Two of them were mundane enough to ignore for now. Something about an upcoming appointment with the cybernetics doctor. A routine check-up, likely. The other was some promotional bullshit from his credit card, something that was unimportant enough to delete. The last, however, caught his attention. A familiar voice began with _Hey, Rhys_ followed by _…remembered it was the day you were going down to **The Diamond Pony**. Just wanted to see how that interview went. Oh, and, I wanted to tell you: apparently my firm serves the boss there. There were a couple rumors flying around today. About him, I mean. Something about how he made this call to us—_

It was his old college roommate, Vaughn, and Rhys was ecstatic to hear that he’d called. But whatever he had to say would have to wait because suddenly there was a knock on the door. Rhys checked the clock on the wall. It was past midnight. Odd. He had no idea who might be visiting him at this hour and he shut the voice mail off, opening the door up without disconnecting the security chain. 

Standing outside in a bathrobe, flannel pants, and a pair of deck shoes was Mr. Xavier Strongfork. 

“Hi, Rhys,” came the man’s jovial voice. “I heard you coming back from the train. Your mother’s been worried about where you’ve been all day. Wanted me to check on you when you got in. I told her, knowing Jack Wolfbaine, he saw your potential right off the bat and put you to work. Can I come in?”

“Uh…sure, dad.” Rhys popped the chain and stepped back, the door creaking open all the way. “Sorry I didn’t call or anything. Things got a little crazy today.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Striding across the room, Xavier took up perch in Rhys’ favorite armchair, the leather creaking as he settled into it. “You’re a grown man. You can do whatever you want. Now dinner, though—it was a bit more upset over the lack of your presence.”

“My apologies to dinner, then.”

On the couch opposite his father, Rhys sat down, keeping to the edge of the cushion. A moment later Seamus abandoned his food, padding over to where Rhys sat. With a leap, the cat was laying across Rhys’ lap, tail swishing lazily. 

“So, are you going to tell your old man about your first day?” Leaning forward, Xavier propped his elbow on his knee, cradling his head with his palm. “How was the notorious chef Handsome Jack? Was he a complete drill Sargent?” 

Stroking his cat’s ears, Rhys shrugged his shoulders and said, “You seem awfully excited to hear if he abused me or not.”

Quiet chuckles escaped from the confines of Xavier’s throat, as if he were trying to hold them back. “I’ve met Mr. Wolfbaine once or twice. Interesting fellow. Not nearly as horrible as his reputation makes him out to be. And the man can _cook_.” A pause, Xavier drumming his fingers against his face. “Though that _Handsome_ moniker is a bit of a misnomer.”

“I didn’t think he was all that bad looking, really,” Rhys blurted out before he could stop himself. 

“Yeah, but that scar? Heard it was a freak kitchen fire or something. Bit of a myth surrounding it.” Pausing, the man shook his head. “Please don’t fall for the man you’re meant to be working for, Rhys. I need you to be able to finish your internship with him so you can come back and take over _Strongfork’s_ for me.”

“I’m not falling for a man who flings pots and pans at people when he’s pissed off.” On his lap, Seamus rolled partially on to his side, pressing himself against Rhys’ stomach as his eyes drifted closed. 

“Is that all he threw? Shit, when I was in training,” and here Xavier broke into quiet guffaws, “I saw live fowl tossed about like the head chef was perfecting his juggling act. Chickens and ducks, flying straight for me.”

“Besides, dad, I told you: I don’t want the restaurant. Rowan is perfectly capable to taking it over for you. You don’t need me.”

“Your brother is a tragedy in the kitchen,” Xavier insisted, punctuating his words with the force of his sudden frustration, mood doing an almost complete turn around. 

“He isn’t. He’s just as good as I am. We’re equally matched.”

“But he thinks he’s better than the both of us. And that’s where that boy’s failures lie the most. He doesn’t have enough chops yet to be that arrogant. It’ll ruin him.”

“It’s not going to—look, I’ve got plans, dad. And they don’t involve _Strongfork’s_. I want to make a name for myself on my own. You know that. It’s why I changed my name to mom’s maiden one to begin with.”

A pout from Xavier, who looked all but crestfallen. “I’m still pretty upset with you over that. I don’t think you acted reasonable at all.”

“Maybe not. But it’s too late to change things.” Scooping up Seamus, Rhys transferred the cat to his shoulder, holding it like an infant as he stood. “And it’s way too late to be having this conversation. I have another long day tomorrow. I’d like not to go to bed frustrated, if I can avoid it.”

“I just wish you’d reconsider, is all,” Xavier said as he pushed himself off the seat. “I’d really prefer an ingenious innovator at the helm of my restaurant rather than a bag of wind that doesn’t walk off the beaten path.”

“Rowan’s a good chef,” Rhys said, crossing to the door and opening it. He didn’t outwardly kick his father out, but the silent implication hung in the air. “He’ll carry the family name just fine with playing it straight. You don’t need me to do that. Er, no pun intended.”

With one look at the door standing ajar, Xavier nodded. “I guess that’s all I can hope for at this point, can I?” He made his way over, standing there awkwardly as he regarded his son. “We’ll talk tomorrow, ok, Rhys? Come inside when you get home. Even if it’s late. Me and your mom will be up.”

“Alright. Have a good night, dad. Try to get some sleep. _Strongfork’s_ isn’t going to run itself.”

“You too. Give ‘em hell tomorrow, kid.”

As Rhys was closing the door, he froze, shaking his head.

“Long story, but, please, whatever you do. Don’t call me kid, dad. Ever.”

XXX

On the other side of Opportunity, among downtown’s hoard of late night revelers, the night was winding down. _The Diamond Pony_ ’s crew full of drink, they were all wasted and wary, dispersing at last for the evening, traveling their separate ways to the beds awaiting them back home. Timothy had shown concern for Jack when he’d insisted on continuing the festivities on his lonesome, had tried to talk him out of going his own way. In the end, he’d tucked his tail between his legs and retreated, knowing when he was fighting a battle with his brother he couldn’t win. Heading back to the Pony to retrieve his and Jack’s motorcycle, their posh uptown apartment had become his lonely destination. Jack would have to make his way home via his own means.

Fresh off the subway, stumbling and laden with intoxication, the chef made his way to _The Cattle Ranch Casino_ ’s doors somehow without a hitch, the bouncers paying him as much mind as they would any other drunken gambler looking to make their wallet cry mercy. Once he’d stopped at the courtesy counter to exchange money for chips, his momentum took him deeper into the casino, past the _plink plink_ and the whirling lights and sounds of the one-armed bandits. The colors rose up around him like a hazy filter over an already chaotic world. It was only by some miracle that his drunken self ended up at the blackjack table, and even luckier still that it was the one being handled by the dark-haired woman in the cowboy hat. She was standing idle at an empty spread when Jack clambered up on to a seat, glanced at the placard stating the ante, and pulled out a few casino chips.

The woman smirked at him and shuffled the deck. 

“Seems my night just got a little pick-me-up,” the dealer said, golden eyes gleaming as she doled out their cards. “What’s a handsome guy like you doing in a seedy place like this?”

“Looking to waste some coin and get properly wasted with good company,” Jack answered, glancing at the dealer’s face-up card then tapping his own. With the rich, hollow sound of card stock cutting the air, a King of Hearts was placed down in front of him. “Shit. Busted.”

The dealer revealed her cards, smirking as they tallied up under twenty-one. “You know, seems to me you’re already properly wasted,” she said as she cleared the cards. Jack threw more chips down, and another hand was dealt. “Seems a whole lot more like you need that good company.”

A waitress done up in a rodeo skirt and button down shirt complete with rhinestones came sauntering by. As Jack flagged her down, she gave him her best lipsticked smile and tipped her wide-brimmed hat. 

“Highball,” Jack told her gruffly, then turned back to the dealer. “You might be on to something there, sweetcheeks,” he told her as he scrutinized the cards carefully this time, his eyes bleary. After a moment, he held up his palm to signal he wanted to stay. “When’s your shift end tonight?”

One by one, the dealer’s cards were revealed. Busting after sixteen when she was hit with Queen of Diamonds, the cards were swept up once more, dealt again with precision and flourish. 

“Half hour,” she told him in a deadpan. “You think your sorry ass can make it at this here table that long without going for broke or passing out?”

“Hey, come on now. This is me we’re talkin’ about. I’m not one of those lame-ass losers who come to drool over the sight of your tits in that sheriff outfit.”

A card landed face-up on Jack’s pile, though he hadn’t signaled whether he’d wanted to hit or stay. He blinked at it as if it had appeared out of thin air.

“Hand slipped. Lucky you, though. You get to keep the card. Dealer’s rules.”

Studying the card as it wavered in front of his vision, Jack saw that it had put him in a very precarious place. Whatever he chose to do could potentially make him bust, and he’d have to tread with caution. “Stay,” he said in a voice roughened by the corner he’d been painted into. “You know I could get you in big trouble for that.”

“You could, Jack. Definitely.” And here the dealer casually curled back the lapel of her long coat, flashing the leather harness strapped to her arm, the pearl handle of a six-shooter gleaming as it caught the house lights. “Wonder if it’s really worth the risk, though.”

For a moment, Jack simply fought to keep his ass on his seat, the weight of drink making him wilt to a single side. Then he was barking out a laugh, followed by another, and yet another still. Still seized by laughter when his Highball arrived, he practically brayed in the poor waitress’ face, throwing some crumpled bills from his pocket on to her tray as tip. 

“You’re my girl, Nisha,” Jack said, knocking back a mouthful of his drink, ice clinking musically against the glass.

An elegant eyebrow was cocked under the brim of Nisha’s hat. She dealt out cards to herself, busting on the last one she placed.

“I am most definitely _not_ your girl,” she said, clearing the table, shuffling cards with quick, practiced gestures. She could unholster her gun and pull the trigger all six times even faster. Jack had seen such a feat with his own eyes, when they’d been drunk and bored and had hung out on the outskirts of the city taking potshots at rakks and skags for fun. He was no stranger to firearms, but he didn’t quite love the vicious nature of a gun like she did, nor was he as good at wielding one. “You made that clear when we first met. Told me the old lady came first. And, no offense, but I don’t exactly want the whole strings attached gig, either.”

“Circumstances change,” Jack said, punctuating every word as if trying to add weight to them. “People change.”

“But you don’t change.” Nisha fixed her golden gaze directly on Jack, holding him to the spot with just that look. “Why are you _really_ here, Jack?”

There was a sigh from the man, his head bowing. He coughed once, feeling the drink rising in his gorge, the burning aftertaste spilling into his mouth. “I’ll tell ya later. After we get upstairs and get a few party favors into us.”

“Sounds like you learned to talk sense again real quick.”

In the luxury suite, after Jack had given her the story of how the day had gone down, Nisha lay on the king sized bed, coat off and hung on a wing-backed chair along with her holster. It was in easy enough reach if she needed it. Not that with one leg drawn up and the other sprawled out, the back of Jack’s head resting in her lap, that she would. The two of them lay in bliss, silent and restless in a clashing combination that shivered up their spines, sent their teeth grinding, and turned their bones to gelatin. Jack only ventured upward to grasp the compact mirror that belonged to Nisha that sat on the nightstand, snuffling up the cocaine that had been cut upon it. For a moment, he stayed upright, his eyes flecks of obsidian in the darkness as he gazed at Nisha as if she were an apparition sent to haunt him. Then he was aiming his mouth at hers, trying to bring them together in a sloppy semblance of a kiss.

Nisha raised a hand to his chest, which lay bare as he’d unbuttoned his shirt earlier, chest hair ruffled beneath her nails. She gently pushed him away, keeping him at arm’s distance.

“And this is why your wife left you.”

Jack made a sound that was somewhere between snort and laughter. “I never cheated on her once.” His voice was gravel and grit, raw with emotion. “You know that as goddam well as I do.”

“Ain’t what I meant, Jack,” Nisha said, words bubbling up in rapid fire succession. “More like how you can’t control yourself.”

“You’re gonna have this conversation with me _now_? Really, Neesh?”

“Well I sure as hell ain’t spending the night with you, so it can’t wait till morning.”

“Ah, shit. You really gonna bring me down after the sheer craptastic day I had? Only good thing about it was the fucking new guy, and I’m not even really sure what to think about him. Seems like a good worker. Got himself a robo arm, but, eh, I got a salad chef with a hook, so it ain’t no biggie. Not gonna judge ‘im for it.”

“You only hired the salad chef cos he’s your dealer.” Nisha was making her way to the edge of the bed, standing up. She sniffed once, letting out a deep breath that became a pleased hum.

“Nah, Troy’s a decent kid. Knows his way around a few impressive dishes,” Jack insisted, running a hand through his already disheveled hair, his gray streak on full display. On the nightstand was also a pack of cigarettes. He flipped the top open and fished one out to light up. “Just don’t tell ‘im that. It’ll go right to his noggin’.”

With a loud reverberation of fabric sluicing through the air, Nisha spun her coat around herself and draped it over one shoulder, holding it there. She managed to get her shoulder harness on one-handed, her steps assured as she made her way to the suite door.

“Wait, are you leaving me here by myself?” Jack asked, seized by sudden realization and dread. Smoke drifted from his cigarette up towards the ceiling. He jammed the filter between his lips, drawing hard on it. 

“Yup,” Nisha told him, emphasizing the word. “I don’t really feel like getting dragged down to hell with your weird moodiness and gropey hands tonight. You’re lucky I didn’t break something of yours when you went there.”

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

“’Fraid not. I care about you, Jack. Helluva lot more than I do anybody else in this shitty city. But right now, not sure I can trust you to be yourself. And I ain’t one to be anybody’s rebound woman. So I’ll leave you to your own devices.”

“Come on. You know this ain’t no rebound shit. You’re, like, my partner in crime. I wouldn’t do that to ya.”

“You already did.”

With that, Nisha opened the door. She was slipping through before Jack could stop her, his mouth gaping open, no sound coming out, as if the words were made of sharp angles and edges and had lodged in his throat. There was the click of the lock falling back into place, then the sound of footsteps padding down the hall before trailing off altogether. Jack held his cigarette, startling when it ashed on to his pant leg, the heat concentrated and sudden. He brushed it off with rough swipes of his palm, annoyed, frustrated.

Rising, he walked to one of the picture windows, standing before it, staring out into the darkened void of night, lights and shapes flashing like a million eyes winking. It was ominous, as if some great, monstrous beast was staring straight into his soul, silently judging him. 

He drew the blinds and puffed on his cigarette, standing in the semi-darkness like a thief in the night, waiting for his prey to settle down so he could break in and enact his plans. 

Only there was nothing to pilfer, nothing left to acquire.

Nothing he could do to walk the clock back and change the very course of time. 

He was utterly lost.

Seeking out the wet bar, he found a pristine mini bottle of cognac, cracking it open. 

It would be only one of many bottles opened that night.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning felt like it was doused in molasses, Rhys showering and preparing for work at a snail’s pace. He hadn’t drunk a drop of alcohol, and yet he felt wary, hungover. It took him forever to choose an outfit, but that mattered least of all. Today he was bringing his own chef’s whites to wear. He packed them neatly in a gym bag along with his kitchen shoes, wondering all the while why he was even going back to _The Diamond Pony_ after the night he’d had before. Self consciously, he stared down at his robotic limb, free of its gloved casing. Freshly buffed, the chrome gleamed, his reflection staring back at him in it. After awhile he sighed and finished packing his gear before making sure Seamus had food for the day. On his way out, he grabbed a travel cup that he loaded with coffee, then locked up the apartment. 

When Rhys reached the restaurant after short rides on both the train and subway, the staff had turned over from the previous day. In the dining room stood a machine of sorts, autonomous by the looks of it, sorting silverware. At the bar, Vasquez had been replaced by a blond man, his hair done up in tasteful spikes, his blue eyes hard but keen, relaying he wasn’t just some dumb brute slinging drinks. Not as impeccably dressed as Vasquez had been, his clothing was still smart, all white oxford long sleeved shirt and red button down vest. He was going over a thick book on the bartop, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Rhys was pretty sure smoking was prohibited in the restaurant, but it didn’t look like anybody was bothering him about it. 

Troy’s sister was there as well, sitting at the bar. Tyreen, he remembered her name was. She wasn’t paying attention to him, however, too busy cradling her head with the bartop. Definitely seemed like she had a hangover. Rhys could tell when she finally looked up and shot him a weak wave. He waved back, wondering what her brother was going to be like to deal with if he were in a similar state, and moved deeper into the restaurant.

Mr. Blake was waiting for him in the kitchen when he stepped inside.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Alton,” the manager greeted him. “It’s positively a great thing you’re the punctual type. We have ourselves a bit of a problem in the kitchen today.”

Looking around, Rhys didn’t quite catch on to what the manager was talking about. Wilhelm was at his station, mixing what looked like dough for bread. At the salad station, Troy looked to be preoccupied messing with various liquids. Rhys noticed he had an earbud in each ear, no wires attached. Probably against the rules, but like the bartender smoking, there didn’t seem to be anyone reprimanding him.

Besides the four of them, nobody else was in the kitchen. Maybe the others just had later shifts, but Rhys doubted it. The only one that didn’t seem to need to be here for prep work and tasting tests was Athena.

Before Rhys could voice his questions, Blake spoke up.

“Jack has called in today,” he addressed the three chefs present. “He’s currently indisposed and won’t be making it in for the dinner shift. I tried to contact Mr. Flynt, but he insisted it was his day off and refused to fill in for what he deems not to be an emergency on Jack’s part.” There was a pregnant pause from the man, who looked between the three of them. Troy, who was hardly paying attention, popped an earbud out and stuck a finger in his ear to clear it. A sneer from Rhys would have been shot his way, but the young chef didn’t want to piss the salad chef off when it looked like they would need to be cooperating. “Athena _may_ make it in, but she promised no guarantees. Which means she likely won’t be joining us. Congratulations, Rhys. For today, I am playing you as my Trump card. You’ll be the acting Chef de Cuisine.”

“W—What?” Rhys squawked, half regretting his decision to come back to the restaurant after the experience of his first day. “You can’t be serious. I’m Chef de Partie here. That’s hardly a head chef position.”

“Peculiar,” Blake remarked, rubbing his chin with his long fingers. “Your reluctance doesn’t align with your capabilities. You worked at _Strongfork’s_ , did you not?”

“Wait, _he_ worked for Xavier Strongfork?” Wilhelm asked, stopping his ministrations to look up.

“ _The_ Strongfork’s?” Troy chimed in. “That haute couture bistro uptown?” His French pronunciation wasn’t the best, so the words that came out of his mouth were difficult to make out. 

“You mean haute cuisine?” Rhys said, trying to be helpful, though his anxiety bled through his words. “And I was just a dish washer there.” The young chef suddenly felt caged in. His skin was clammy to the touch, his teeth gritted so he didn’t end up shuddering from the creeping sensation winding down his spine.

“Calm down, please,” Blake told him, sensing his agitation. “Did you not think we didn’t talk to the high-end restaurant you claimed to work for upon receiving your internship inquiry? You were a chef there. A rather good one, if I’m to believe the glowing reviews from the staff. We wouldn’t have taken you under the Pony’s wing otherwise.”

“He’s a hotshot chef,” Wilhelm said in a deadpan, then grunted. “Should’ve figured.”

This was Rhys’ worst nightmare come to bite him in the ass. He slapped a palm over his face, shook his head. He’d been working so hard to secure a position in the culinary field without his family’s name, and all along the only reason he was here was because his father had probably talked him up.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Alton?” Blake asked. 

There was a creaking as Rhys grabbed the metal edge of a prep station with his robotic hand. “Yeah,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, every thing’s swell. Let’s just…get on with whatever I’m supposed to do.”

“Are you sure you’re in any shape to handle this?” Troy asked, crossing his arm over his prosthetic. “You don’t seem like you’ve got it together.”

A glare was directed at the salad chef. Straightening up, the steely look in Rhys’ eyes seemed to say ‘try me.’

“I can handle it just fine. I’ve done it before. What’s on the menu today?”

“That is one of our problems, Mr. Alton,” Blake informed. “I do not have Jack’s planner, and he’s being quite impossible today to deal with. Says he doesn’t have it on him where he is and can’t send me a copy, and we can’t get in touch with Timothy at the moment. We did get the morning haul of ingredients like always, though. We have fresh foie gras, sea bass, quail. There should be an order of langoustines and white truffles coming in at some point.”

“Alright,” Rhys said, voice scratchy. He cleared his throat, working up his confidence. “I think I have some ideas. Let’s get some eggs tempered while I get dressed. Do we have any brioche by any chance?”

“Dough for that’s in the walk-in,” Wilhelm told him. “I’ll get it baking for you if that’s what you need.”

“Have you ever made, er, like, perfect little rectangles out of it, with a ruler?”

“No. But I’ve got a good enough idea of what you’re asking for. Just leave me alone and I’ll get it done.”

“Can do.” Turning to Troy, Rhys couldn’t help but resent the rat-like expression the salad chef shot him with. “Troy, what do you say to a cobb salad for a lunch alternative?” For the first time, Rhys realized Troy wasn’t wearing his chef’s whites appropriately. The top half was tied around his waist, an A-style top leaving his abundant peppering of tattoos on full display. His pants hung loose on his hips, too much of his hipbones exposed. It was safe enough for a salad station, but mortifying if a health inspector ever decided to walk in on them. “Also, can you please wear your chef clothes the way they’re meant to be worn? Right now you’re a kitchen nightmare.”

It looked like Troy was about to spit on him. “Jack never bothers me about it.”

“This might be his kitchen, but I’m not Jack, and you’re a hazard like this. Can you please cooperate with me for just today?”

Troy busied himself with the ingredients at his station, arranging utensils and re-arranging them. It seemed to take a skag’s age, but eventually the man untied his chef coat and shrugged both arm and prosthetic into it. When it looked like he was about to leave it hanging open, he caught Rhys’ raised eyebrow, hastily doing up the modified buttons. 

“So, about that cobb salad….” Rhys inquired again.

“It’s fine,” Troy said curtly. “I can do it, no sweat.”

“Good. I’ll be back in a nanosecond.”

Chef’s coat and pants were pulled on in haste. Rhys’ chef outfit was a rich and elegant black, which he though brought out his features more smartly than the traditional white. He slipped on his work shoes and came back into the kitchen feeling regal and strangely confident, despite his misgivings about why he was taking up the torch to begin with. 

The eggs would take an hour to temper. The young chef planned out his menu for the day during that time. Decadent egg toast for lunch, with alternates being cobb salad made with prosciutto and quail eggs and golden soup. The soup wasn’t anything like Jack’s golden Mulligan stew. This recipe called for turmeric and cashews, among other ingredients. It was a good summer dish, Rhys thought.

The langoustines and truffles came in while Rhys was starting on his soup. He had to inspect the truffles the seller presented him with while he set his pot to bubbling. The langoustines he left up to Blake. He trusted whatever fish monger Jack used to stock his kitchen.

Brioche was presented to Rhys in clear, plastic trays by Wilhelm, perfectly cut, all fluffy and white. Softened butter was dribbled down upon the collective bread, smeared and spread thin until it was a cream colored patina. Tempered eggs now cooked, they were cracked, the soft yet bulbous yolks put one to each rectangle of brioche with a delicate touch. Then the top part was placed, making sandwiches out of them. Rhys would grill them to perfection when they were ordered, then finish them off with a bit of herbs, caviar, and a dollop of the foie gras.

Dinner evolved to be a larger selection of entrees, but decidedly seafood centric. The young chef had always excelled when it came to fish and shellfish dishes. For the sole poultry dish, Rhys would offer quail cooked a choice of three ways: fried in butter, roasted, or broiled. The langoustines would be served as a risotto, and the sea bass, already a treat for the discerning palette as it was, would be baked whole. They just didn’t have the staff to stretch far enough to fillet each fish beyond initial gutting. That was ultimately time consuming.

“Do you know how to scale and gut fish?” Rhys asked Troy, preparing the last of the egg toasts so they’d be ready to hit the grill. He stirred his soup every now and then, tending to it without haste. 

“Do I look like an idiot to you, chef?” Troy snapped back, gesturing to a fish knife resting in a block at his station. 

The other man was taken aback that Troy had addressed him with the right title. Then again, it was a lot less impersonal than his actual name.

“Did I call you an idiot?” Rhys replied in a no-nonsense tone. “I’m asking because I’m obviously still the FNG here and I have no idea what your skill set is.”

“Yeah,” Troy said after a moment. “If you want an honest answer, I’m better at kitchen work than you’d think.”

“Good, just what I wanted to hear. We’re all going to be taking on extra workloads today. You’re assigned to scaling and gutting each sea bass when you’re not doing salads.”

“And what’s Wilhelm gonna do? Stand around and coach us?”

“Wilhelm will be preparing the marinade for the fish and taking care of that end of things. He’ll also be cooking up the risotto and handling desserts.”

There was a grunt from the back of the kitchen. Wilhelm had his thumb stuck up in approval of Rhys’ plan of action.

Suddenly the kitchen doors burst inward. A stumbling Timothy almost face-planted the floor as he tripped over his own feet, catching himself on a corner of a counter. His breaths came hard and fast, as if he’d just run several miles to the restaurant at top speed.

“I’m—,” he began, but was cut off by his own wheezing breath. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to hoof it all the way from the _Cattle Ranch Casino_.”

“The hell you doing all the way up there without your ride?” Wilhelm asked.

“I _had_ the motorcycle,” Tim whined. “Jack made me leave it there for him to ride later.”

“And what is Jack doing there?”

“I dunno. Not my business, and I didn’t feel like getting into an argument. All that I know is that I had his planner that he insisted I get to you guys ASAP, and that he wanted the bike. Well, wanted is an understatement. He threatened my position here. Told me he’ll have me blacklisted if I didn’t do as he said.”

“Again?” Wilhelm shook his head, opened his mouth, but then went quiet. He didn’t say another word.

“Anyway, here, I’ve got….” Trailing off, Timothy looked at the understaffed kitchen, as if noticing how empty it was for the first time. “Where’s Zane?”

“Mr. Flynt has refused to come in on his day off,” Blake told him, relaying the details. 

“Holy hell, what? You put Rhys in charge?” Turning to look at the young chef, Timothy shook his head rapidly, then bit his lip. “No offense, of course. It’s just that my brother is _not_ going to be happy about this when he finds out.” 

“Then he should be here instead of whatever he’s doing wherever. But you heard Mr. Blake,” Rhys said, mustering the mental strength to keep his voice steady. “I worked at _Strongfork’s_. I can do this if I have to.”

Timothy’s words were blunt and tactless. “Are you convincing yourself or the others?” Sighing, Tim handed the planner over to Blake, who tucked it under one arm. “Sorry. That came out all wrong. It’s just that I’ve been under a lot of stress this morning. Jack isn’t easy to deal with on a regular basis. Let alone when he’s on a bender.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Wilhelm said from the back.

“ _What_?” Rhys nearly squawked, his voice going high and thin. “Is that the reason he’s not here today? Are—are you kidding?”

Wisely, Troy kept his mouth shut as he ventured to Zane’s station to begin his work on the sea bass.

“Uh, no, it’s not a joke,” Tim said, voice bereft of emotion. “But it’s besides the point. I guess you’re going to really need my help today, huh?”

“Well, you can do your typical busboy job.” Picking up a clean cloth towel, Rhys wiped his hands. “But it’d be a real boon too if you know how to cook.”

Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, Tim allowed a small grin to play across his lips. There was a cockiness to it, though it was held in hard check. Almost as if Timothy had been trained not to allow himself to show too much pride during certain instances. It was a disturbing thought, but one Rhys suspected held some truth.

“Just let me go get changed,” Tim was saying, heading towards the corridor that lead to the bathroom. “And I’ll show you just what I can do.”

xxx

As it turned out, the bartender that had taken up Vasquez’s post for the day was named August. He was rough around the edges, a real spitfire when it came to dealing with unruly customers, but his bark was bigger than his bite otherwise. The autonomous machine Rhys had seen briefly earlier apparently served as the host for the night, and was named Fl4k. They’d be assisting Axton today, who’d be joined by a woman named Janey Springs later in the evening. Janey was apparently Athena’s girlfriend, and a gregarious sort. Probably one of the friendlier faces among the restaurant staff.

This was all relayed to Rhys by Tim as they worked the kitchen, grilling up egg toasts for lunch and ladling fresh, hot soup into bowls. Troy was the equivalent of a rockstar with the fish knife. He processed the sea bass with the proficiency of a machine, passing them off to Wilhelm to do marinades while he set to making cobb salads. Sweeping in like a guardian angel, Tim assisted him when he needed it. Like any manager worth their salt, Blake expedited the lunch orders clearly and properly, Axton ferrying them off with a smile, and Fl4k, when they came and assisted, doing so with a nod to the small crew. 

Lunch passed in a blur, the windows in the front of house growing from brilliant with sunlight that filtered through the shadowed glass to the dull light of early evening. They took small breaks as needed, Troy slipping away a curiously small amount, Tim surprising Rhys by saying he needed a smoke, and Wilhelm seeming to be the least interested in stopping the train of his work. 

Sometime when the light had finally faded from the sky, the neon signs illuminating the city as far as the eye could see, the air cooled but still warm and cloying, Jack opened the front door of _The Diamond Pony_ and entered. The front of house staff immediately honed in on him, shocked at his presence. Trying not to act flustered, Fl4k showed him to a table and offered him a menu.

“Thanks, tin can,” Jack said, grinning, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Those were weighted down by deep bags, bloodshot. His hair was also slightly mussed, as if he hadn’t had time to thoroughly comb it. However, his outfit was still impeccable; a simple gray suit and white button down, sans tie.

Busy in the kitchen picking up orders, Janey was spared waiting on Jack. It was Axton who took up the call. His friendly smile was immediately replaced by a dubious expression when he saw Jack was the one sitting at the table.

“Jack….” he said, almost forgetting why he was standing there. “What a…pleasure to see you.”

“Axton,” Jack answered on a rising note, as if he were about to say more. “Maybe you can help me out, since you’ve been here almost the longest.”

“Sure…boss.” The words were coming out forced and Axton knew it. He swallowed his pride and cleared his throat, gesturing. “What can I do for you?”

“What the fuck is this menu supposed to be?” 

“Well, I believe that’s the menu that was planned for today, wasn’t it?”

“No. No, it isn’t. Tim gave them my planner, and this ain’t what was in it. Did Timothy not show up?”

“Tim’s here.” Axton was almost cheerful when he said it. “I’m assuming they didn’t go with what you had planned is all.”

“I know that.” Throwing his menu down on the table, it hit his silverware with a clatter, drawing several tables’ attentions. Some stared at him from over their own menus, clearly recognizing who he was. “Do I seem like a moron to you?”

“No way, sir.”

Sighing, Jack threaded his fingers in his hair, his mouth staying glued shut for a moment.

“Being real with me a minute,” Axton went on when the silence grew uncomfortable, “why are you here, anyway?”

Jack sighed again, picking up the menu once more. He glanced at both the front and back, flipping it over a few times as if trying to find a missing page. 

“Because, Axton,” he began, “I’ve had a a helluva shitty day. My wife’s still leaving me, my daughter won’t talk to me, I’m hungover, half-baked, and hungry as hell, and I don’t feel like going home and stewing in my own juices, let alone cooking.” 

“Well, when you put it like that….” Axton made a helpless gesture. “Can I get you anything to drink? Not that I’m completely enabling you or anything.”

“Glass of chianti. Tell Zane or whoever to make me one of those egg toasts from the lunch menu as well, but don’t tell him it’s for me. And I want the fried bird, the risotto, and an artichoke salad.”

“What, no appetizer tonight?”

“You don’t think that’s enough food?” Giving Axton a once over, Jack shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t put down as much as you can and not have to go a few rounds on the ole punching bag afterward.”

“Hey, I work hard for this body. Tim’s too busy in the kitchen to serve drinks, so I’ll get you that chianti ASAP. Let me get your order in, too.”

“What the hell is Tim doing in _my_ kitchen?” Jack demanded even as Axton was walking out of earshot.

When he came back with the glass of dark red wine, Axton set it down and shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask Rhys.”

“Why would I be askin’ Rhys anything about my restaurant?”

“Maybe because Zane’s not here, and Rhys is, and that’s why Blake made him the acting head chef today.”

His glass poised at his lips, Jack stopped midway, turning completely to face Axton. “He did _what_?” he said in a low slung voice, which sounded somehow more dangerous than if he’d been shouting. 

“Turns out the FNG worked at _Strongfork’s_ , if what I’m hearing is true. But you already knew that.”

“So what? Just because he worked at _Strongfork’s_ doesn’t mean he has the chops to run my kitchen. Blake and I are going to have some words when I get the next chance.”

“Sure, but lunch was a hit here, and Rhys ran things pretty tightly. I mean, from my point of view as just a waiter hearing all the praise from the diners.”

Jack sipped at his wine, only the slurp and the sound of him gulping it down filling the air around the two. It seemed like an eon before he addressed Axton once more. 

“Fine. I guess I’ll reserve judgment till after I’ve tried dinner. I ain’t holding my breath, though.” 

The egg toast came first, the yolks in-between the two slices of brioche quivering as Axton set down the plate, making Jack slightly queasy at the sight. The caviar and foie gras stayed precariously balanced on top, however, looking as if they had been shaped there by the gods. It cut easy enough when jack took a knife to it, careful not to sever any of the main ingredients so that it became a runny mess. He grasped a piece firmly between thumb and forefinger and popped it in his mouth. 

All at once his taste buds began to burst like fireworks on a celebratory night. He tasted the rich, creamy, delicateness of the eggs and bread, the salty, briny bite of the caviar, and finally the density of the foie gras that seemed to melt on his tongue like decadent cream as a finisher. It was like a carnival piping out upbeat music and flashing little twinkling colored lights in his mouth. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself. “This beats yesterday’s lunch that Rhys made by a mile.”

The second plates were brought out: the quail fried in butter, as well as the artichoke salad, the latter which Jack knew was Troy’s doing. The quail wasn’t quite a party of flavors as the egg toast had been, but its simplicity was what lifted it from averagely good territory. The meat was tender and juicy, the flavor of the heavy butter coating his tongue. There was piped garlic mashed potatoes and julienned carrots to accompany it that he deemed the perfect match. The artichoke salad complimented it nicely, crisp and refreshing as a palette cleanser.

For the langoustine risotto, it had been cooked with careful precision, making it not soupy like most risottos could turn out. Jack wasn’t a fan of the fennel that was in the recipe, but the sauce had the perfect balance of citrusy and salty, and coupled with the soft meat of the langoustines, was near orgasmic.

As much as Jack wanted to savor his meal, he couldn’t eat all the food before him, instead opting for it to be put in takeaway containers and stored in the fridge for some quick eats the next day. His bulk feeling overwhelming, as he’d definitely indulged in more than he usually could manage, he barely wanted to move. Still, he got to his feet, heading back towards the kitchen, nearly running into Janey, who was ferrying a tray out. 

“Oh!” She was startled to see him standing there. “Hiya, boss. Didn’t expect to see you around these parts tonight. Athena told me you called out and all. Couldn’t make it herself for the evening shift, but the boys have been doing a right good job of the kitchen work.”

“That a fact?” Jack asked, brushing a stray bit of hair from his forehead. 

Janey was nodding. “They got it all under control in there. Never seen them running such a tight ship before. Someone’s put a fire under their arses or something.”

“Or _something_.” Jack snorted, walking past her into the kitchen.

The scene that greeted him was one he didn’t think he’d been likely to see. Imagining chaos, flames, and bickering, all was calm, Blake expediting, Rhys working alongside Tim, Wilhelm and Troy wrapped up in their own tasks. Nobody even looked up at his entrance, apparently not even the door swinging open serving as a distraction. There was no choice but to break their concentration the old fashioned way. Jack took a ladle off a hook and banged it on one of the metal counter tops.

“The fuck?” Troy was the first to look up from where he was chopping lettuce, brow furrowed with annoyance. When he saw who was making the clatter, he was genuinely surprised. “Boss? The hell you doing here?”

“It’s my restaurant, Troy. I can be here if I wanna.” 

“You…don’t need anything from _me_ , do you? Cos honestly, after yesterday, I’m pretty cleaned out.” 

“What? No. I woulda called you if I was low.” Jack spread his arms wide. “Why don’t you just go out to the front of the house and shout that so everyone can hear you. Not like everybody here doesn’t know already.”

“Know what?” Rhys asked before he could stop himself. Troy shot him one of his infamously filthy looks—something he hadn’t managed to do all night so far. The young chef should’ve guessed that wouldn’t have lasted forever.

However, Jack swooped in, cutting off the conversation—or argument—before it could even begin. “What the fuck is Tim doing in my kitchen?”

The pan Tim was working with nearly tipped over on to the floor. He jumped back as if expecting it to, getting splashed with hot oil in the process and gritting his teeth. The man had been perfectly peaceful, assisting Rhys for most of the night, so the action caught Rhys off guard. He nearly planted the sea bass he was plating on his chef clothes. 

Instead of laughing, Jack stepped closer, poking a finger into his brother’s chest.

“You know you’re never supposed to be cooking in here, Tim. I remind you almost every day.”

“It’s on my head,” Rhys spoke up. “He said he knew how to cook. I told him we could use his help. And he’s been really great so far.”

“Is that so?” Jack turned to Rhys, then, circling him like a shark who’d smelled blood in the water. One meaty hand came down to rest on the young chef’s shoulder. “Bold of you to step up to the, eh, plate.” And here Jack laughed briefly. “I don’t appreciate you running my restaurant like ya own the fucking place, but I can appreciate your absolute honestly in eliciting my brother’s help. Hopefully he hasn’t given anyone food poisoning. Then again, nobody eating the fish out there seemed green around the gills.” The chef laughed again. 

Blake, who was standing off to a corner with his fingers steepled, spoke up. “I put Rhys in charge, sir. His culinary background lends credibility to his capabilities.”

“Another bold individual,” Jack remarked, eyeballing the manager. “I guess that’s the flavor we’re going with tonight, eh? Bold and fishy.”

“Fish doesn’t usually scream bold,” Rhys said without thinking.

“What are you doing in the kitchen anyway?” Tim asked, saving Rhys from being overheard by Jack. His brow furrowed with the first stirrings of annoyance. “You looked like death when I saw you earlier. I was under the impression you weren’t coming around tonight.” 

“And I’m not,” Jack said, each word edged with something sharp. “At least not to cook. I did, however, come to chow down. And, lemme tell ya, that was some fine meal I had out there. Praise like that don’t come out of my mouth every day.”

“More like never,” Wilhelm remarked as he worked on finishing off an order of fruit tart.

“Hey, if I wanted comments from the peanut gallery, I’d ask for them.” There was a pause from Jack. “Though you’re more a tough nut, am I right?”

A massive shoulder shrugged at Jack, Wilhelm turning back to his dessert dish. The head chef snorted at the reaction.

“So, kiddo, you’ve impressed me so much that I have a proposition for you.” Making a grand gesture, Jack returned to harassing Rhys. “Once in awhile I like to show off my cooking skills to people that count and throw a little dinner party. Usually that’s just me, Tim, and Zane. Wilhelm always turns me down. And Athena, eh, she came once and that’s all I gotta say about that. Sometimes the twins show up, if they’re not out being complete hooligans. Used to have my wife there, too, but…things change, ya know?”

“I don’t think I really do,” Rhys remarked, moving the plates for pick-up by Janey so she could ferry them to the diners, Jack dogging his trail, “but I’m listening, I guess.”

“So, anyway, I’m considering you as one of the people that count here. And I’m inviting you to come up to my place, eat some good food, hang out in my posh ass apartment a bit. Say, on the day we’re closed, Monday?”

Rhys didn’t even take a second to consider the invitation. “After the way last night went down, I’m going to have to decline.”

“Wait, about that.” Jack reached out and grabbed Rhys by the arm, preventing him from returning to his station. “I think things got a little out of hand. No, er, pun intended. I mean it. I thought the cybernetic was pretty bad ass.”

When Rhys pulled away, it was too sharply, nearly wrenching Jack forward. He returned to the spot where he’d been slaving over the hot stove. “Regardless, I don’t think I’ll be coming. I have other obligations I have to attend to.”

“Like what? Diner’s not until six. You’ll have all day to do whatever ya need to do.”

“Taking care of my cat, for one thing. Beating a game I’ve been playing. Seeing my friends.”

“Oh my go—those are lame fucking excuses. Sheesh.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to come.”

Someone cleared their throat. It was Tim, who was wearing a completely sheepish expression. “If you won’t come by Jack’s invitation, then how about mine?”

There was a long pause. Rhys realized that most eyes were on him at the moment. All except Blake, who couldn't look more disinterested in the happenings around him. Rhys was beginning to get a general feel for the manager, and this seemed to be par for the course with him. 

“Maybe,” he said after a few moments. “It all depends.”

“On what?” Jack questioned rather pointedly.

“How the rest of this week goes, mainly. Let’s just say I’ve started to board the train of thought, but I’m not entirely committed to the ride just yet.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Putting his hands to his hips, Rhys couldn’t help but smirk a little. He was beginning to feel like he’d acquired the upper hand in the conversation. 

“You’ll see by Monday.”


	8. Chapter 8

As it turned out, the rest of the week went by without many hitches. Jack threw himself into his work like a beast, dragging his restaurant’s weight on his back. Everyone in the kitchen seemed impressed by his utter one-eighty, whispering to each other that they had never seen Jack so electrified or imbued with energy in such a long time. He still took his frequent breaks, still fucked off and didn’t show back up for awhile. But even Zane had to respect the fact that he didn’t resort to throwing a single utensil around, or chew out the staff too badly when they ended up in the weeds during a service rush. 

Rhys was not as moved by Jack’s turn around as the rest of his staff. Still the FNG even after spending several days in the kitchen, he couldn’t fathom what improvements the others had seen. They must have been there, though, if even Zane was talking his boss up for it. The younger chef had come to realize that more often than not, Zane was at odds with his boss over everything from what they served to the way they served it. The old sous chef was an ornery thing, more obstinate than a skag with a bone. In some ways, he could be worse than Jack, but only because the head chef was lackadaisical. It was not a tight ship all around, and Rhys was learning how much more it was sinking on a daily basis.

By the end of the week, Jack, having spent the days scrutinizing Rhys’ behavior in the kitchen, approached him with a proposition: he could train directly under Jack, be sous chef on Zane’s day off, if he agreed to come to the dinner party. The young chef had to admit it was an enticing offer. To train directly with Jack was a dream he’d been cultivating since he knew he wanted to be a chef. On the other hand, the dinner party seemed a lot less like something he wanted to tangle with with the only reward being becoming Jack’s apprentice. It was a gamble.

Eventually Jack nagged at him enough that Rhys finally bowed under the pressure. He almost couldn’t fathom how it had come down to this, but here he was on Monday evening, dressing in neat casuals and perusing the wine selection at the local liquor store. He chose a twenty year old red at random, not concerned with impressing Jack’s tastes, and carried his selection on to the subway. The ride uptown would not take long.

It was Timothy who answered the door when Rhys rang the bell. The way he was dressed made him look a hell of a lot like Jack, and Rhys almost mistook him for his twin. Then he slowly realized there was no faint scar on Timothy’s face, and his hair was slightly different. Longer and styled as if he actually cared about proper grooming, which Rhys realized he’d never noticed before. Jack’s hair style was almost abstract, as chaotic and disheveled as the man’s psyche probably was.

“Everyone else is here already,” Tim informed him, ushering him inside to the warm smell of simmering sauces and freshly baked bread. “You’re kind of late.”

“Sorry, I got held up by wine,” Rhys answered, proffering the bottle he was carrying in a plain brown bag. 

Timothy took it from him, slipping the bottle out. He eyed the label for a second or two. 

“You didn’t have to bring anything. We have plenty of shit here,” he blurted out, then shrugged. “But it’s okay. It’ll get drank tonight some way or other. Jack isn’t ready, by the way, so don’t let him berate you about not being on time.”

They moved into the kitchen, where several pots and pans lay in various states on the six-range stove top. Some bubbled and boiled, others were covered tight with lids. That, however, wasn’t what drew Rhys’ attention. The kitchen itself was enormous, at least as big as an industrial kitchen. There was an oven beneath the gas range, and another double oven built into the wall. Ample counter space seemed to stretch for miles, and there was a center island. Jack currently stood there, plating tortellini and sprinkling it with what appeared to be chopped almonds and small flowers. Taking up a fork, he speared a hefty sample of the pasta, shoveling it into his mouth.

“That’s some perfect shit, lemme tel ya,” he said without looking at either Tim or Rhys. “Tonight’s dinner is gonna be the best yet. Thanks for finally showing up, Rhysie.”

Rolling his eyes, Tim fished in a drawer until he came up with a wine opener. Diligently he began to work open the bottle Rhys had purchased. The younger chef, however, stepped up across from where Jack was working, noticing he was now piping a foam into glassware.

“Doesn’t really look like you were ready for me to show up,” he remarked, keeping his tone polite. He leaned across the counter just slightly, trying to get a better look at what Jack was making. “What’s on the menu tonight anyway, chef?”

Jack shot him a quick look that said everything and nothing somehow all at once. It was clear he was trying to work out if he were being mocked or not. One hand gestured towards the biggest pot currently situated on the stove top. “Tonight we feast on seafood boil with king crab as the main attraction. You ever cook a king crab before?”

“Sure. We made it on occasion at _Strongfork’s_. It was a big crowd pleaser.”

“You’re goddam right it is. Surprised Xavier sprung for that kind of thing, though. He’s always been such a gastro snob. Doesn’t really know how to get down to ground level with his cooking.”

“Da—a gastro—he isn’t a snob,” Rhys said with enough conviction that Jack looked up at him again. His gaze lingered this time. “How on Pandora could you think _Strongfork’s_ is snobby when you run _The Diamond Pony_?”

“Why do you care what I say about the place? Ain’t like you work for them anymore. You’re part of _my_ team now, kiddo. We’re your family, not them jackoffs.”

“I—I’ve only been at the Pony with all of you a week.”

Two glasses full almost to the brim with wine were placed on the island in front of each of the men. Tim raised his own glass in salute, downing a hefty mouthful. Just like that, the tension was broken. Jack snatched up his glass, slurping noisily.

“Not a half bad wine, Rhys,” Jack remarked. “Nice going with the choice.” 

“Looks like I learned _something_ at _Strongfork’s_.”

“You just might’ve.”

“Why don’t you come through into the living room,” Tim said, gesturing with his glass. “Everyone else is in there. They’re probably playing video games.”

“Uh, ok, I guess.” Taking his glass of wine, Rhys took a tentative sip, smacking his lips to savor the taste. It was nicely sweet and dry, hints of fruit in the mix. He stepped into the living room to the sight of several figures sprawled on a couch yelling at a screen mounted on the wall.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Ty!” Troy, who seemed to be using a special controller designed to accommodate his prosthetic, was sprawled in the center of couch, feet bare where they were propped up on the coffee table. ”You better stay away from me!”

“Oh, please,” his sister was saying. “You know I’m better at this game than you are.”

“The hell you are. This ain’t Forage Forge, you know.

Zane, who was sitting at the end of the couch nursing a beer, looked over to where Tim and Rhys had entered. He raised his bottle, taking a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Didn’t think ye’d really be showing up, boyo. But now that ya here, mebbe ye’d like to show these two shitehawks up in this here game they’re playin’. I’m getting right tired of them running off their gobs.”

It was then that Troy turned his head in Rhys’ direction, a sneer crossing his lips like a knife wound. “Aw, man. You mean he actually showed up.”

Poised with his glass to his lips, Rhys frowned. “Well, if you really don’t want me here that badly, I could always leave.”

“Wait, hey,” Tim spoke up, glaring at Troy. “Hold up. Just cos Troy’s butthurt about you being here for whatever reason he’s concocted doesn’t mean _we_ want you to leave.”

“Feck no,” Zane spoke up, socking Troy in the arm, to which the other man swatted at him. “Park your arse down, Rhys. I need to see someone put this langer in his place.”

“Shut it, old man.”

“Don’t think I will, Troy. Wanna see how well you go up against Rhys anyway. This has been right boring for me, watching you and ya sis try to constantly off each other.”

There was a sigh from Rhys. He downed another mouthful of wine, then sauntered deeper into the living room, taking a seat on one of the many other couches. Sitting down beside him was Tim, who seemed to be indulging in his wine with a lot less restraint.

“What’re you playing?” Rhys asked, making sure to direct the question at Tyreen.

“Some old school game called Silver Iris,” Tyreen answered without looking away from the screen. “Troy thinks he’s better than me at it, but he’s really shit.”

“I’m not. You just cheat.”

“I never cheat, bro.”

Despite himself, Rhys allowed a half-smile to cross his features. “Room for one more, then?”

“Yup,” Tyreen said at the same time Troy spouted a sharp, “nope!”

But Tyreen was already passing her controller, the match on screen paused as she handed the apparatus off to Rhys, who set his wine glass down on an end table. The controller was taken in hand.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Troy said to him just a second before un-pausing the game.

Rhys was thrown into the fray with only a split moment to figure things out. Apparently Troy’s character was in the midst of hunting him down, and from the split screen image, he was hot on the trail. Rhys scrambled for cover with his avatar, cycling through the firearms he had on his character’s person. There didn’t seem to be anything extra powerful save for a shotgun he had a few more rounds of ammo for. He hit the reload button and fired just as Troy’s character came rounding on his hiding spot, hitting him point blank. The shotgun ended up killing him instantly, the screen proclaiming victory for Rhys.

“That was fast,” he heard Tyreen say in a smug manor.

“He got lucky,” Troy shot back. His voice was full of annoyance and grit. 

Taking a victory swig of wine, Rhys was feeling pleasant, pleased with himself, and suddenly comfortable among everyone. It probably had to do with the wine and his gaming skills, but he was enjoying it all the same.

Another round started up. The two chased each other through the massive labyrinth, weaving through shortcuts and ducking into hiding spots. Troy took Rhys’ character out with a deadly spray of shots from his SMG in the next round, and in the next, but Rhys recovered and took him out with equal precision for the next match. The randomly generated weapons were a bitch to work with, as acquiring them was shear luck that Troy seemed to be blessed with, but Rhys had to admit Troy was skilled regardless. He knew how to control his character with deadly force. Rhys was mostly just spraying and praying half the time. These types of games weren’t his forte.

Fortunately, he was spared from a humiliating amount of deaths by Jack calling them all to dinner. Tim patted Rhys on the shoulder as he moved to get up.

“Good game,” he said to both players. Troy scoffed at him from across the room.

“Rhys totally sucked,” the salad chef said. With a shove from his sister, he was rising form the couch as well, stretching out his long, lanky form and slipping his shoes back on. “He could use a lot of practice.”

With a shrug, Tim finished off his wine, left the empty on the end table as he put his arm around Rhys.

“This way to the food,” he said, and lead Rhys to a room off the living room with a long wooden dining table set for seven people. Rhys didn’t know who the seventh plate was for, nor did he have time to ask. Tim had deposited him and then whisked away to the kitchen to go help Jack bring the meal in.

Conversation around the table was light as the food was passed around. Most everyone seemed to be concentrating on what was on the plate before them, which was currently the tortellini starter. Rhys dug into it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster in the setting. Much to his delight, the cheese-filled pasta was delicious, perfectly cooked, and completely addictive. If there was one reason he was glad he’d showed up to Jack’s party, it was because he got to sample Jack’s cooking in a more or less relaxed setting. Not even Troy picking up his plate and slurping the sauce off could ruin it for him.

Next came the seafood. And here, the conversation became more lively. Rhys couldn’t help but enjoy himself as he cracked open a king crab leg and tore out the meat from within. It was succulent and tender, melting on the tongue. He was so deeply involved in the festival of flavors that he’d forgotten Jack had taken the seat beside him at the head of the table. There was a nudge to his elbow that jarred him out of his revelry, and he slurped down a chuck of crab meat and looked up, blinking.

“Bet you glad you came after all, eh?” Jack asked, grinning wide with teeth bared. Then he reached down to his plate and used a pair of shell crackers to open a lobster claw. 

“Sure, I guess,” Rhys answered. He was taken off guard by the question, too wrapped up in the experience of the food.

“Well, _I’m_ glad you came. So’s Timmy here. He’s been eager all week for you to say yes. I mean, the both of us really think you got what it takes to train under me.”

“What?” Tim asked, looking up from across the table. Currently, he had a mouth full of crab.

“I was just saying how much you were hoping Rhys was gonna join us tonight so we could have another back-up chef.”

If one could look like he’d been caught swiping cookies from the kitchen before dinner, primed to ruin his appetite, Tim did. He swallowed his food loudly, then nodded.

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Tim’s voice shook a bit, as if he were trying to keep embarrassment at bay. “I was telling Jack almost every day how much better things would be if we had the extra hands in the kitchen. And not as some line cook, either.”

“Oh, ye sweet on Rhys then, boyo?” came Zane’s question from beside Rhys.

Everyone laughed, then.

All except Tim, who looked as confused as if someone had swapped out his plate of seafood for gruel. 

“That ain’t the reason,” he said matter-of-factly. “I felt bad. I mean, not in a pitying way or anything like that. Just, that night without Jack, and then Jack showing up.” Noticing his brother was giving him a look that could incinerate the fine tablecloth beneath their plates, Tim promptly shut up. But not before he added, “I just wanted Rhys to feel more part of the team.”

“How nice, Timmy,” Jack said. He secured an ear of corn from a platter on the table and gnawed on it for a bit before continuing. “But I’m sure Rhys doesn’t need that kind of pissbaby treatment.”

From his place next to Jack, Rhys couldn’t help himself. He snorted. “That was pretty nice of you, Tim,” he said, his gaze remaining on Jack. There was the sharp edge of spite to his words. “I really appreciate that.”

“Don’t think buttering up my brother is going to get you far in my kitchen,” Jack snapped, slamming down his fork. Everyone looked up from their food at once, all except Troy, who continued to attack a dinner roll with wild abandon. With a mouth full of bread, he snickered, eyes alight with glee. 

“I’m not buttering him up,” Rhys said at the same time Tim said, “He’s not.” 

“You two attuned to each other or something, or is there just an echo in here?”

Tim, who seemed fed up with dealing with Jack already, picked up his re-filled glass and took a large gulp of wine. He rolled his eyes. Hard. Rhys, however, sat poised with his fork in hand, not eating anymore. He followed suit, taking a swig from his glass. After what seemed like an eon, he set his fork down and shoved his seat back from the table.

“Where’s the restroom?” he asked, addressing Tim. 

Ever helpful, Tim gave him directions. 

“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

“If you’re gonna be wine-sick, don’t do it in my bathroom,” Jack called after him as he left the room, barking out a laugh.

Already having turned the corner, Rhys stuck up his middle finger, glad that Jack couldn’t see him right now. Flipping off his boss, even outside the kitchen, probably wasn’t the greatest of ideas. But he was just so…so _annoyed_. He’d expected Jack to be on his best behavior in his own home, that’d he’d at least be cordial. And when he’d first walked in, it seemed like he was going to be. Of course, that hadn’t lasted very long. He was a fool for agreeing to come to this dinner. It was his own fault he was stuck here now, trapped between his boor of a boss and that asshole Troy. Everyone else seemed alright, and he really had no qualms dealing with them. But those two were acting like a pair of shitheads, as if they were cut from the same cloth.

“It’s probably none of my business,” came a sudden smooth, feminine voice, “but I just have to wonder when I see a man flipping the bird off at an empty room: who the hell got him so worked up.”

The voice startled him. Rhys spun around to find himself gazing into eyes as golden as doubloons. There was a cruel smile on the woman’s lips, a long duster accenting her thin frame. When she moved, her hips swayed in the hypnotic fashion of a pendulum. If he wasn’t utterly surprised at seeing her there, he might’ve backed up a step or two.

“Uhm,” he said, his hand gradually falling back to his side. “I gotta use the bathroom.” As soon as the words were out, Rhys felt immediately ridiculous for announcing it. Embarrassed, he dashed off to the bathroom, did his business, and emerged again only to find the woman hadn’t budged. 

She was taking off her jacket when he came back, her t-shirt beneath baring her midriff, her jeans tight enough to look painted on. Never had he seen a woman who could look so deadly while dressed so casually.

“I—I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” Rhys said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. The way she looked at him was so smoldering he thought it could set his skin ablaze, send it sloughing off. 

“Don’t believe we have,” she said, her tone sounding ironic. She didn’t hold out a hand to shake, merely brushed hair out of her eyes and tilted her head. “Nisha.”

“My name’s Rhys.” Where she hadn’t, he _did_ stick out his hand. She looked at it a moment, then slipped her palm into his, gripping it tight and shaking vigorously.

“You must be the fucking new guy.”

“That’s me, even after a week.”

The hand in Nisha’s own was let go. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be the FNG for a long, long time. That is, if you make it that long.”

With that, she didn’t even wait for a reply. Her back was turned on him, her booted feet carrying her into the dining room. Rhys followed, curious to who exactly this newcomer was and how she had just waltzed into Jack’s apartment. Probably a girlfriend, he thought. Jack was getting a divorce, after all. He’d probably had someone on the sidelines. Or that’s the way Rhys always felt divorces seemed to go down in his world. Not that he’d known many people who’d gotten married yet let alone divorced yet.

“Nisha, baby!” Upon seeing Nisha walk into the room, Jack stood up, a bare-toothed grin spreading across his features, teeth so white they were luminescent. “You made it. It’s so good to have you back here, ya have no idea.”

“Is that so, Jack?” Nisha said, and sat down at the empty plate that had been lying unoccupied. That seemed to solve the mystery of who the seventh guest was meant to be. Plucking a slim case from her pocket, Nisha pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between her lips. Then she guided her gaze to Jack.

It was like Jack was trained to read her body language. Without even asking, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and held the flame out for her to light up. She puffed once, twice, then blew a plume of smoke in his face. Despite a bought of coughing, Jack didn’t unleash his typical vitriol.

“You wanna tell me,” Nisha said, sitting back in her chair, eyeballing the array of food on the table with a hungry look, “what you did to Rhys here to make him so pissed at you. _He_ wouldn’t tell me, so it must be bad.”

“Whaddya mean?” Gaze falling on Rhys, who hadn’t taken his seat again yet, Jack’s voice was suddenly a lot less friendly. “He isn’t pissed. Are you pissed at me, Rhys?”

The young chef spoke without thinking it over. “N-no, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Then who the hell on Pandora here were you exactly flipping off when I came in?”

Again, Rhys spoke without thinking, cheeks burning hot as he answered on autopilot. “Uhm…T-Troy?”

Having been still gorging himself, Troy stopped mid-bite, looking over. He made a questioning noise, but didn’t say anything else.

Nisha hummed, drawing hard on her cigarette. She expelled the smoke through her nostrils like a raging bull. “Is that so?” she drawled, looking between Jack and Troy now. “I guess I can give you that. Troy _is_ pretty sleazy.”

“Wow, what?” Troy said, straightening in his seat. “You’re the freakin’ ones demanding shit from me day and night, running my supply dry, and _I’m_ the sleazy one?”

“Admit it, kiddo,” Jack chimed in, finally taking his seat again. “It ain’t your fault. Some people are just, er, born into that life.”

“Hell, if Jack weren’t trying to get into my pants,” Nisha said. “You’d sure as shit be trying to get into his. I know those looks. I’ve seen them.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Troy exploded, slamming his prosthetic down on the table, making his dish rattle, utensils clanking against it. “He’s old enough to be me and Ty’s freakin’ dad! Hell, he _is_ like a dad to me. Treats me and my sis better than my real one.”

“Yeah, you should totally meet the guy,” Tyreen chimed in, her tone sardonic laced with amusement at the drama unfolding. “He’s a real deadbeat. Left me and Troy to fend for ourselves after mom died. Says he tried his best to raise us, but neither of us believe him. Oh, and all he talks about is how he was a literal shit farmer and how he fucked our mom all the time. In the bed we slept in as kids no less, can you believe it?”

Rubbing his temples with his fingers, Troy groaned in sheer frustration. “Thanks, Ty, I really didn’t need that trip down memory lane.”

Tyreen just patted her brother’s shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

As the conversation spun around him, Rhys was getting mentally dizzy. This was what he feared most, being in this room full of his co-workers, drama unfurling faster than it could be contained. He took a step back, then another. Nobody was paying attention to him, and nobody would probably see him slip away if he did. He made the split second decision to do so, crossing the apartment to head back into the restroom once more. Once inside, he locked the door, ran the cold water. His cheeks were beet red when he looked in the mirror, the water soothing as he splashed it upon them. He breathed evenly. In, out, his head bowing till it was pressed to the cool metal of the tap. He was going to be soggy and look like a wreck when he came out, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Besides, he’d convinced himself it was just about time for him to leave. 

When he finally opened the bathroom door again, he was not alone in the hallway. Standing at the mouth of it, apparently having been waiting for him to come out, was Jack. Rhys could tell it was him by the faint scar on his face, and by the stance he took. Arms crossed over his chest, expression stern. There was an enormous sigh from Rhys. He walked up to where the other man was standing, feeling like he was approaching his doom.

“It wasn’t Troy, was it?” were the first words out of Jack’s mouth.

The other chef didn’t even pretend to not understand the question. Wary, he felt like he had no more strength left in himself to fabricate anything. He shook his head.

The corner of Jack’s lip curled back from his teeth. “Thought so. So I’m gonna ask only once. What the hell did I do to you? I’m pretty sure we were having a pretty cordial conversation before.”

“You call that cordial?” Rhys snapped, realizing his mistake only a second later. He really didn’t want to make Jack any madder than he probably was. He also didn’t want to get involved in this conversation at this very moment. “Look, Jack, I appreciate dinner. It was great, from what I tasted of it. But I should probably get going.”

“What are you talking about? You can’t just leave right now. We had a deal.”

“Of course I can. And that’s what I’m going to do. So, if you’d please let me pass, then I—”

“No. No way. You’re part of my crew. You almost single-handedly had my restaurant running smoothly without me a week ago. You’re one of _us_. You’re not leaving here without an explanation.”

There was a long suffering sigh from Rhys. He closed his eyes, opened them to find Jack was still standing before him. Definitely _not_ moving out of the way. 

“I don’t have one for you,” he said, his voice on the verge of pleading. “Even if I did, it’s so convoluted that I doubt we could work it out right here and now. So, please, I’m asking again: let me pass.”

“Nuh uh, not good enough.”

“What the hell are you doing, Jack?”

The voice was similar to Jack’s, but far less timid than it usually sounded. Jack turned around to come face to face with Timothy, his brother’s brow furrowed deeply.

“Rhys wants to go home,” Jack said, making the words sound accusatory. “And he knows we had a deal regarding him coming for dinner tonight. I’m demanding he give me an explanation before he leaves.”

It was Tim’s turn to sigh. “The guy wants to go home. He doesn’t need to tell you why. Especially since you’re being an unfair dick and _demanding_ it.”

“I’m not—”

The look on Timothy’s face was enough to shut Jack up before he could say anything more.

“Just let him go home, Jack. You’ll have plenty of time to harass him during work hours.”

And with that, Timothy brushed past Jack in the confined space, putting himself between Rhys and his brother. He didn’t even wait for Jack to defend himself, though he knew the man probably wouldn’t. Sure, most of the time he bulldozed right over Timothy’s very being with his presence, stepped on his words like they were scurrying insects, disregarded everything about him and threatened his livelihood. But in a house full of guests, with Rhys only one mere distraction, Jack wad preoccupied enough to back off. His lips became a tight line, the creases around his mouth twisting into a scowl.

“Fine, then,” he said. His voice was clipped, the words curt and sharp as razors. “Let him go home. See how well it works out in the kitchen when you shun your boss’ hospitality.”

Standing stock still, Rhys couldn’t even bring himself to look at Timothy let alone Jack. His gaze cast downwards, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Another sigh from Tim, this one even more exasperated. “Come on, Rhys. I’ll give you a ride home.” There was a pregnant pause, tension spiking between the three men for a moment. “And don’t listen to Jack. He don’t mean most of what he says.”

As if on cue, Rhys nodded. He wasn’t really listening much anymore at this point, checked out in the safety of his own head. Which was quickly starting to pound with the stirrings of a headache. Thankfully, Tim didn’t need to use force to get Jack out of their way. The man was already slipping away, pausing in the foyer to regard the pair as one might regard party guests that had arrived late.

“Careful with my bike, Tim,” he said. There was an undertone to his words that was less than friendly. “Would be a shame if you two had a horrible accident.” The last was said with a hint of malice.

The headache pounding in Rhys’ temples ramped up for that split second. But Tim shook his head, meeting the harshness of his brother’s words with an almost sickly cheerfulness.

“You know I’m more careful with the bike than you are, right?”

“Bite me, Timothy.”

It was the first time Rhys had ever seen Tim grin the way his brother so often preferred to. Bared teeth, amusement dancing in his eyes. It was absolutely terrifying to behold, reminding Rhys that the two were indeed related, and that he didn’t really know if he could trust Tim all that much, considering.

In the end, though, he allowed Tim to walk him out, his head splitting so bad now he couldn't refuse the ride home if he wanted to. It would be no party taking the train home being in such agony. He didn’t know if this was a wine headache, a migraine, stress, or all three, and he didn’t want to risk being alone if it got any worse. There was nothing in his physical history of being prone to headaches, but this one was _horrific_.

“I’m sorry about Jack,” Tim was saying as they made their way through the underground garage, lights overhead almost blinding in Rhys’ condition. “He gets like this when he gets an idea in his head. Like a dog with a freakin’ bone. And you’re new so you get the brunt of it. He _really, really_ likes to hang on to his crew members. I mean, I know why. I can’t really say I’m any different. It’s just people like you always seem to get caught in his crossfire. You don’t know how many newcomers we’ve gone through in the past.” Tim glanced over his shoulder, frowning when he saw Rhys wincing. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Rhys said a little more sharply than he intended. “I don’t care—I mean, I have this awful headache. I don’t really wanna hear about Jack right now, just get home, crawl into my bed, and get some sleep.”

“Understandable. Maybe we’ll save that topic for another day, huh? The bike’s right over here.”

“I’d be glad if we never brought it up again. But I guess he’s still technically my boss, so that’s impossible.” 

The motorcycle was in pristine condition, all slick chrome and shiny black metal. Rhys didn’t know enough about bikes to know what make or model it was by sight, but he knew he was immediately enamored by it.

“Sorry I don’t have a car or anything,” Tim was saying. “Motorcycles aren’t the greatest transportation for migraines.”

“S’ok. I’d just rather not travel alone in this condition, really. Fuck, I can barely think straight.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you home in one piece.” A sleek, black helmet with face shield was taken off the back of the bike, placed in Rhys’ hands. “Just slip into this and hop on. I’ll keep it under the speed limit if I can, okay? You ever ride before?”

“I guess that’s as good a promise as any,” Rhys remarked at the same time Tim was sliding on his own helmet and pulling up the shield. “No. This is my first time on a bike.”

“Then you best hold on tight to me and try to lean with the turns.” 

The other man situated himself on the main seat of the motorcycle, starting it up with a roar that rumbled at the base of Rhys’ spine and seemed to crawl upward, exploding in his head. He wasn’t even sitting on the vehicle yet and it was already agony. Still, he took up the spot behind Tim, wound his arms around the man’s waist, and, having headed his warning, waited for them to accelerate.

The ride home proved not so bad, Rhys’ headache staying at a minimal roar for the duration. All the while, though, he had to keep reminding himself that the man he was clinging to wasn’t Jack, and somehow that had him _thinking_ of Jack even as he was entering his apartment and turning on all the lights, Seamus running up to greet him at his entrance. They were mostly thoughts of how the hell he was going to face his boss the next day at the restaurant after the disastrous night. That made the headache surge again, and all at once he was both mentally and physically exhausted from it. 

All he could do from there was make a beeline for his bed and fall fast asleep. His dreams were bizarre, peppered with appearances of Jack and the crew of The Diamond Pony, but mostly Jack.

Once morning came, he couldn’t remember a thing about what they might’ve entailed.


	9. Chapter 9

Getting up the next day for work was hell for Rhys.

The headache had passed, quelled by rest and morning routine. However, it had been replaced by a deep, dark dread that coursed through his veins like the coffee he’d imbibed. He hadn’t any idea how Jack was going to react to him once he arrived at work, but he did know he barely made it on time for his shift. Which wasn’t like him. Rhys was at work _before_ he was scheduled, not walking through the door at the hour on the hour.

Vaguely, he wondered if Jack’s offer for him to be his apprentice was still open. He told himself he didn’t care if it wasn’t, that he was just here to do his work, get paid, get his kitchen hours sorted, maybe help bang this place into shape in the process. But the fact remained that it had been like some delicacy had been placed before him, then promptly pulled away while he was still reaching for it.

Puffing up his cheeks, Rhys blew the air out in a heaving breath. He needed to calm down or he was going to screw up at some point today. Zane was already looking at him strangely, but he wasn’t sure if it was because his behavior was bizarre, or if it had to do with the night before. Most likely the latter. He’d walked out of the dinner party without any parting words. Now that he had time to sort it out in his head, it _had_ been rude of him.

A stinging sensation rode up Rhys’ spine as a palm came down on his back, making him yelp. As far as slaps went, it wasn’t hard, but he’d been so wrapped up in his own world that he would of yelped at _any_ contact. 

“Well if it isn’t the party pooper in the flesh,” came Jack’s drawling, jovial voice. “I hope you’re not going to try to apologize or anything cos, boy, that’d be lame.”

From the salad station, there came a soft laugh. Both Jack and Rhys looked over to see that Troy was watching them over his shoulder, shit-eating grin on his face.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch. The head chef’s face contorted into something dark and fierce. 

“You’d keep your trap shut,” Jack told Troy, “if you knew what was good for you.” 

The grin was wiped from Troy’s face, his lips drooping with confusion. He resembled a lost puppy at the moment that had just been swatted away.

“Considering you’re part of the reason things went down the way they did last night,” Jack went on. “Frankly, you’re kinda on my shit list right now, Troy, so I’d tread carefully if I were you.”

There was a metallic salad bowl in Troy’s hand that he slammed down hard enough for the counter top to ring. Jack turned his back on him, unperturbed by the temper tantrum, steering Rhys away. The younger chef almost dug his heels in and refused to budge, but knew it was probably a bad idea to disrespect his boss that way. So he followed his guidance, finding himself standing before the head chef station.

“Lesson one: do not, and I mean, _do not_ take this situation for granted in any way possible, kiddo,” Jack said. He reached for a pan and placed it on to his stove top, not turning any dials just yet. “Those I choose to directly train under me are rarer than me being in a decent mood, so bare that in mind, eh?” 

A nod from Rhys, but that didn’t seem to be enough for Jack. He squinted at the younger chef and cleared his throat.

“Yes, chef,” Rhys said, taking the hint, the words said with as much respect as he could muster.

“Better. Alright, so I usually go by a planner. You’ll be getting real intimate with that planner soon. But for now, we’re gonna keep this simple. For lunch we’re doing wagyu beef sandwiches and mushroom and brie soup. The sandwiches come with fresh garlic parmesan fries. Dinner is seafood paella, roast breast of duck a l’Orange, or fresh grouper and risotto. If you’ve never cooked any of that, than what the fuck are you even doing in my kitchen?”

“I have to admit, I’ve never handled wagyu beef that much,” Rhys answered. “The rest? Piece of cake.”

“Oh really?” Jack looked skeptical. “So you can pull off a paella without looking at a recipe, you’re tellin’ me? Even with all those ingredients?”

“Well….” Rubbing the back of his neck above the collar of his chef’s uniform, Rhys shrugged. “Maybe not _quite_ off the top of my head. Close enough, though. I’ve made it outside the restaurant circuit a few times.”

“You sayin’ you make paella at home? A man after my own heart. You know that’s one of my favorite dishes to make, Rhysie?”

“Oh, er, I guess that makes sense. I mean, you seem to like seafood, considering last night’s dinner.”

“You mean the one you hardly touched?”

“That would be the one, yeah,” Rhys said matter-of-factly. He tried to appear calm and serene as he said it, but within him his heart was trip-hammering.

Thankfully, Jack took it in stride, clucking his tongue as he shook his head. “Didn’t even stay for dessert. I made honey-caramel creme brulee and everything. Oh, and tartufo.”

“What’s…tartufo?”

“Shit, Rhysie, you don’t know what goddam tartufo is?”

“Sir?” came a voice, interrupting the spiel Jack had been about to launch into. It was Blake, who had strode through the double doors of the kitchen with such upright purpose that it seemed almost militant. He folded his hands behind his back, addressing Jack in a respectable fashion. “There’s someone in the front of the house who wishes to meet with you. He claims to be your newly assigned accountant. I asked for his credentials and they checked out.”

“Huh, is that so?” Jack rubbed at his chin, eyeballing Rhys for a moment. “Stay here a sec. Let me go check this out.” He stepped around the chef station, then, saddling up to Blake, who turned and directed him out of the kitchen. 

Upon watching him go, Rhys heard someone coming over and looked up to see Troy had taken up residence beside him. The taller man poked him in the chest with his prosthetic, shying away just short of shoving him backward.

“Listen, asshole,” he said. There was a smoldering look in his eyes, the dark make-up around them only adding to his menace. “You’re pretty fucking close to getting on my last nerve. The next time you fuck something up between me and Jack, I’m gonna hand your ass to ya on a silver platter.”

“I wasn’t even aware you and Jack _had_ a thing.”

“Not the way you’re thinking. You’re too naive to understand.”

“That’s enough, boyo,” came a voice from across the kitchen. “Time to back off and get back to your station.”

“Sure, I’ll back off.” Troy spoke without even turning to face Zane, his narrowed gaze on Rhys instead. “For now. Next time the kid gets it in his head that he’s hot shit, I won’t be so merciful.”

“For feck’s sake. Can you not threaten your own kitchen staff, please? Bad enough Jack already does that.”

In his chest, Rhys’ heart was palpitating, threatening to burst through his rib cage. Since he’d been working in the kitchen, Troy had said a plethora of unsavory things to him. Insulting, derogatory things that made Rhys’ hair stand on end, but that he could easily ignore, as there was little he could do about it. The salad chef had never directly threatened him before, though. It was new, setting Rhys on edge. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Jack’s laughter came bursting through the kitchen doors again, the man himself obviously finding something to his amusement. That’s not what made him do a double take, however. It was the person at Jack’s side, short of stature, watery, unsure smile plastered on his face, that had Rhys bounding from his station and sweeping the man up in an undoubtedly unprofessional hug.

“Vaughn!” Rhys shouted, unable to help the infectious grin spreading over his features. “Never expected you to be walking in here like this. What the hell are you doing here, buddy?”

“Rhys!” came the excited reply, Vaughn returning the bear hug after a moment. “What do you mean? I left you a message saying I work for the boss down here now, remember? Or didn’t you get it?”

“That’s enough of that now,” came Jack’s sharp tone. “This is a professional kitchen. It’s downright unsanitary to be all over each other like that. Break it up.” As the two parted at the command, Jack met Rhys’ gaze, nodding at Vaughn. “He your little boyfriend or something?”

“What? No. Nothing like that. Roommate. Er, ex-roommate.”

“I’d say that’s interesting, but it’s really not. So I’m just going to take your _ex-roommate_ here into my office and go over the important things I need to go over with him. That’s cool with you, right, Rhysie? I mean, since he’s _my_ accountant.”

“Wait, couldn’t you just give us a few minutes?” The look on Rhys’ face was almost pleading. “It’s really been forever since we’ve seen each other. Come on, chef, I swear it won’t be long.”

Hands on his hips, Jack thought about. “Fine. You can take a generous fifteen since I think you’re the only party in this kitchen that doesn’t take a goddam smoke break.” Jack was already moving past them, plodding back to his station. “Honestly, what the hell’s wrong with you, kid?”

“Just because I don’t blow off steam with something as disgusting as cigarettes doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me, chef.”

At that, Vaughn chuckled. He fixed his comb over and leaned back against a counter. 

“Seems you’re getting on well enough here,” he said.

“If by ‘well’ you mean contending with a new kind of challenge every moment at this place,” Rhys answered, crossing his arms over his chest, mirth creeping into his words, “then, yeah, I’m getting along pretty well.”

Jack didn’t so much as look up from his station, but his knife came down so hard on the chopping block where he was cutting meat that it made everyone jump, Vaughn included. There was a very obvious eye roll from Troy to complete the ensemble.

“That’s good,” Vaughn said with some hesitance, eyeing the kitchen staff. “I bet the old man’s really riding your ass about it, huh? He still want you to come work for the family?”

At the last, Jack looked up, but didn’t stop chopping. His demeanor was one of an invested man, Rhys trying to shake his head to deter his friend from the subject.

Vaughn, however, was clueless to the subtle gesture. He plowed straight ahead in the conversation, tumbling them both head first into his next words. “Oh, whose going to take over Strongfork’s for your dad, then? Rowan? Please don’t tell me it’s Rowan.”

Jack all but flung his knife down, the metal hitting the counter with a clatter that drew everyone’s attention. The knife was followed by his fists, which came down with more force, shaking things as if there’d been an earthquake.

“Excuse me for interrupting. Or actually don’t, I don’t give a flying fuck. But _who’s_ your father now, Rhys?”

“Oh, shit,” Rhys said, realizing only a moment later he was speaking aloud.

“I asked you a question, Rhys. Who. Is. Your. Father?”

Closing his eyes, Rhys took a deep breath, held it. Beside him, Vaughn’s entire demeanor had shifted. He was a man who looked like he wanted to crawl out of the kitchen on his belly.

“He’s…he’s Xavier,” Rhys said, voice cracking. “Xavier Strongfork.” 

“Xavier Strongfork. _The_ Xavier Strongfork.” A hush had fallen over the kitchen, not even the clinking of a pot or pan piercing the tension accumulating on the air. “Your father is Xavier Strongfork, and you walk into the Diamond Pony for an internship, not even mentioning who you are.”

A deep trembling had started within Rhys’ belly, branching out to his extremities, trying to ensconce his psyche. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Jack. He could handle the beratement if it came down to that. It was the very thought that his plans had been foiled in a single line of conversation. Vaughn couldn’t be to blame. He hadn’t known. Rhys was left in the wasteland of not knowing how to respond to Jack, the sands of his fate blowing around him; the dust of what was left of his schemes. He should have figured Jack would find out sooner or later. But he’d been hoping it would’ve been later.

“I think you and I need to have a talk, Rhys,” Jack said. His tone was even, and somehow that made it more frightening than if he’d been yelling. 

“Sorry, bro,” Vaughn whispered under his breath to Rhys.

“Alone.” When Jack turned and began to head for the walk-in fridge rather than his office, Rhys was confused. The head chef turned around sharply, glaring at him. “That wasn’t just a request.”

Giving Vaughn a reassuring pat on the shoulder, to which his friend frowned at, Rhys sighed and followed Jack.

“I don’t want to see any tears in this walk-in,” Jack said as he closed the door behind them. “Nobody cries in my kitchen. Not even in here.”

With a deep breath, Rhys said, “I’m not going to cry.”

“You so sure about that? Even when I threaten your livelihood by having your blacklisted for trying to sabotage my restaurant? Tim almost cries every time I tell him that. The blacklisting, not the sabotaging.”

“Wait, what?”

“I said Tim—”

“No, before that. Do you seriously think I’m trying to sabotage your restaurant?”

“Well, why else would that gastro snob Xavier’s son want to come work for me instead of for him? You even _were_ working for him. And you left. So what the fuck am I supposed to think, Rhys?”

“Nothing! That’s preposterous to think I’d come here just to steal your damn secrets or whatever and drag them back to my dad. You two aren’t even in the same kind of cuisine.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t trying to poach my staff or nothing.”

“Trying to—does it seem like I’m trying to poach any of your staff? Hell, at least two of them actively dislike me.”

“Who, Troy and Vasquez? Those two hate everyone. You seem to get along just swell with Zane, Athena, and Wilhelm.”

“Wilhelm barely says a word to me. Look, if you want the actual truth of why I’m here, I’ll give it to you, okay?”

“I just can’t wait to hear this one, lemme tell ya.”

It was in that moment Rhys thought about turning away from Jack when he said it. His answer seemed embarrassing now, especially in the face of such a renowned chef. Jack would probably poke fun at him for even daring to think such a way.

“I didn’t want to be known in the culinary world as Xavier’s son, okay?” Rhys said, a certain pointedness marring his words. “I don’t want to be under his thumb all my life. I changed my legal name to Alton so I could make it in the restaurant industry without everyone thinking it was only because of him.”

Jack’s expression had shifted. He looked taken aback by the information. “Whoa, Wait, what? Is that the truth, Rhys?”

“I have no reason to lie to you.” Rhys crossed his arms over his chest, looking as defiant as he could muster. “My dad thinks me riding on his coattails is the only way I can succeed in this business. He doesn’t think my hard work and dedication is enough.”

“He actually said that to you?” Demeanor morphing with each word, Jack now seemed more invested in what Rhys was telling him.

“In so many words. He wants me back at Strongfork’s so I can run the place for him. But, really, I have no intention of doing that. I don’t want to be a hotshot just because I’m Xavier’s successor.” 

“I don’t blame you, kiddo. You should have every opportunity to go your own way, nobody tellin’ ya what path to walk when it comes to being a chef. It’s alla bout soul, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know that. Why do you think I’m here right now instead of at Strongfork’s?”

For a long while, Jack didn’t say anything. Instead he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and slid one out with his mouth. It remained dangling from his lips, unlit, his teeth grinding at the filter.

“Look, I gotta go talk to your short little friend outside there right now,” he said, huffing as if taking a drag. “But I’m all ears for this conversation. Just not now. Go out there and handle the food for me. Don’t let nobody but Flynt push you around, ‘kay? We’ll talk later.”

“I think I can manage that.”

The heat of the kitchen outside the walk-in was a stark reminder that getting back to work was a priority. Rhys shot Vaughn a smile on his way to the executive chef station, assuring him that everything was okay even as Jack came to whisk the short man to his office. Vaughn turned back once to look at him, but Rhys only emphasized his point more with a thumbs up. Jack was soon out of ear shot, and the silence that descended on the kitchen earlier suddenly burst like a bubble.

—“I can’t believe your Xavier’s son, boyo. You bloody well had us all going.”

—“I bet he’s here so he can sneak back to his dad and tell him all the shit we get up to.”

—“Strongfork’s is pretty legit as an establishment.”

The last came from Wilhelm, which surprised everyone in the kitchen. Zane, Troy, and Rhys simultaneously looked toward the last station, where he was busy peeling potatoes.

“Quit staring,” he told them. “It isn’t like I don’t have opinions. Rhys.” A Steely gaze fell on the shorter man. “You didn’t have to lie about things, you know.”

“I didn’t.” A watery smile stretched across Rhys’ features. “I just conveniently left out a few facts. Alton _is_ my legal last name. Technically, it’s not lying.”

“Boyo’s got a point there.” Stroking his beard, Zane made a humming sound, then gestured vaguely. “Whaddya say we get on with lunch prep then, since the boss ain’t here. I’ll handle the wagyu beef. You good with the soup, Rhys?”

“Mushroom and brie, right? Yeah, I can handle it. Unless you have a certain way of making it.”

“Nah, just standard, and wouldn’t think ye couldn’t. Troy, soup comes with house salad, so nothing fancy.”

“You got it, el cap-i-tan.”

“I’m not your captain today, ye langer. But I will tell you to get things rolling already.”

From there, the kitchen snapped into action, the time that ticked down before the lunch rush feeling like it was moving with great haste. Rhys had his soup ready in record time, piling fresh ingredients into the broth and topping them off with silken hunks of brie. Zane had the wagyu cut in perfect portions, ready for the fire while Wilhelm’s stacks of potatoes were cut with precision and ready to hit the oven. This probably wasn’t Jack’s ideal training of Rhys, but with him being gone for so long, they couldn’t risk waiting around to be guided.

The head chef returned in time for Rhys to be helping Zane cook up the wagyu. So far, the orders for the sandwiches versus the soup were overwhelming, and Zane was in the weeds trying to handle each himself. Quiet at his station, Troy diligently made salads, the noise of the kitchen subdued as Jack approached.

“Well, looks like you bunch are getting along fine without me,” he remarked. Beside him, Vaughn shuffled his weight from foot to foot, as if eager to speak. “I thought I’d see total fucking chaos when I came out of the office. Color me speechless.”

“Ah, can it already,” Zane told him. “Me and Rhys are in the shite here. We could use ye help, chef.”

“You seem to be doing just fine without me. Just keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll be fine. I’m going to the basement for a little break. I got some things to think about. Athena should be in soon, so she can help you out. Oh, and Tim will be in for dinner.”

“Feckin—”

But before the words could pour from Zane’s mouth, Jack was already patting Vaughn on the shoulder and turning away. There was the sound of the basement door creaking open, then slamming shut. As soon as Jack was gone, Vaighn shuffled forward.

“Oh, man, bro, I’m really sorry about before,” he said to Rhys, mopping at his brow. “I had no idea nobody knew about Strongfork’s.”

“It’s okay, bro,” Rhys reassured him, looking up from his pan to flash him a smile. “It’s no big deal. It all worked out in the end.”

“Really? I mean, that’s good, right? I don’t want to get you fired from here or anything.”

“I’m not getting fired. I swear, everything’s okay.”

“You should get fired for being a little bitch about your identity,” came a voice, and the entire kitchen looked over to see that Troy had stopped chopping vegetables at his station. He was half turned around, snarl on his face as he stared down Rhys. “Can’t even own up to who you really are. We don’t need that soft-bellied bullshit in our kitchen.”

Remembering what Jack had said about letting people push him around in the kitchen, Rhys swallowed thickly. At first he said nothing in return. Then he was slamming the pan in his hand down on to the stove, mustering his anger and balling it into one entity.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Troy?”

The words were out before Rhys even realized he were saying them. But once they were, he didn’t regret them nor did he find he feared any repercussions. He felt…free somehow. As if he’d just released something bottled up inside him and let it geyser.

“Nice one, Rhys,” Vaughn whispered and Zane slapped him on the back, nearly sending him slamming into the stove. 

“Bought time ye spoke back to that arsehole,” the older chef said. “I was beginning to wonder if ye had a backbone.”

There was a loud bang again as Troy set a salad bowl down before him. He turned away from the rest of the kitchen, ignoring them for the most part as he concentrated on what he was doing.

“I have to get going, Rhys,” Vaughn spoke up, side-eyeing Troy and trying not to snicker. “I have another client visit scheduled. But we’ll talk more soon I hope. I know you’ve been busy here, so no worries if you can’t call for awhile. I totally understand.”

“Yeah, hopefully it won’t be ages till we see each again, either. It really _was_ nice seeing you, despite everything that went down. I’ll definitely try to call you soon.”

The two parted ways with a wave at each other this time, Vaughn escorted out the kitchen doors by Blake. When he was gone, Troy turned back to Rhys, sneering at him like one would at a rotten portion of meat.

“You seem awful sweet on each other. That your little butt buddy, Rhys?”

Everyone in the kitchen, including Wilhelm, turned to Troy at once.

“Shut the hell up,” they told him in unison, and Rhys swelled with pride at how everyone seemed to be taking his side this time around. These people had his back, and that was something he didn’t think he would’ve gained so easily here. 

“Fine. Don’t wanna talk to any of you dickholes anyway.”

“Then shut ye trap and don’t,” Zane shot back.

The salad chef grunted, but said nothing else, which acted as a prelude to the rest of the afternoon. The only words out of the mouths of the staff were to expedite and call back orders to validate them. They worked like cogs in a great machine, churning out dishes for Amara and Axton to ferry to tables. Athena arrived just as Jack was emerging from the basement, his skin sweaty and ruddy, pupils blown wide and darting around the kitchen as if he expected spiritual entities to start crawling out of the foundations and haunt him. 

“You were gone a long time, bossman,” Troy finally spoke up, likely feeling Jack was the last guy who was going to berate him for it. “Everything cool? I could give you a hand, if you need.”

“S’fine,” Jack said with an edge to his voice. “I don’t need help from you right now.”

With the expression that was immediately soured, Troy turned back to his salads. Rhys would’ve felt bad for him if the guy hadn’t shown how much contempt he had for him and threatened him.

Jack made his way over to where he and Rhys had been working earlier, beckoning the younger chef back over. Zane nodded his approval of letting him go, and Rhys bounded over, his expression eager but his lips wisely sealed. 

“Alright, we’re gonna handle the paella here,” Jack told him, his words delivered in rapid fire, his hands wringing a dish towel. “Gotta remember the three S’s. Stock, saffron, sofrito. I always use fish stock to cook this. Go gather the ingredients for me.” Jack rattled them off, Rhys committing them to memory before entering the walk-in. He grabbed what he needed, the rest taken from the refrigeration units built into the counter below them. Last was a bag of the expensive Spanish bomba rice they’d need. “So, you really told your old man to fuck off just to come work for me?”

The question caught Rhys off guard as they poured stock into an over-sized pot.

“Not exactly,” he answered as if wading through honey, the words drawn out. “It was an ongoing thing, if you must know. He didn’t want me going to the Casa to study even. I did that on my own.”

“No shit. I’d be ecstatic if my daughter showed an interest in going to the Culinary Arts Academy.” As if the memory had stabbed him in the chest, Jack gritted his teeth, wincing as he mentioned her. Soon enough he was recovering. “Not that I’m not happy with her going to her school of choice. It’s just that it’d be nice to have another chef in the family.”

“You seem like you’re enough of a chef for an _entire_ family. No offense.”

“Nah, yeah, I get where you’re coming from. And anyway, I wouldn’t force her to work here if she didn’t want to. That’s bullshit. You can tell Xavier I think that.”

The chuckle that escaped Rhys couldn’t be helped. “That might break his heart. He really admires you.”

“No shit?”

“Grew up in a household where it was nothing but your stuff on the television and all this talk about how chef Jack Wolfbaine was the next great Pandoran chef. Really inspired me, to be honest.”

Adding the rice to the stock, Jack turned up the heat on the burner. He eyed Rhys conspiratorially, then leaned over into his space. Rhys was ready to jump out of the way, but a beefy hand came down on his shoulder and held him in place.

“You and me ain’t so different, Rhysie, ya know.” Jack leaning in even further, their bodies were pressed close; close enough for Rhys to smell the cigarettes on Jack’s breath and see the redness marring his eyes. It should have been unpleasant. It wasn’t. Rhys felt manic at the way his mind was handling the situation, confused. “You wanna know a secret, since you seem such a fanboy?”

“Sure,” Rhys answered, managing to keep his voice steady.

The words were so soft in Rhys’ ear he barely heard them, but they came through nonetheless. “Wolfbaine ain’t my real last name, either. It’s Lawrence, like Tim’s.”

Trying not to show his surprise, Rhys whispered, “Why’d _you_ have to change your name?”

A shrug from Jack, who handed Rhys a knife to start chopping the sofrito. “Thought it make me more popular and memorable if I sounded like someone famous. And, hell, it worked.”

Nearly bursting out laughing, Rhys brought the knife town swiftly on the tomatoes, garlic, and onions. The sudden realization that he was actually getting along with Jack warmed him, and he couldn’t help the bud of camaraderie that was forming in the fibers of his being. Again came the confusion, but he ignored it, for the most part. 

“Is that supposed to teach me a lesson that a name means everything? That I shouldn’t be trying to pass myself off as an Alton when I can be a Strongfork?”

“Nah, kiddo. You do you. But don’t forget either: it does help just a teensy bit to have that leg up in this dog eat dog business.”

Rhys’ smile was crooked. “Thanks heaps for letting me know.”

In comparison, Jack’s smile was positively wolfish. “You’re welcome. And I mean that sincerely.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: drug overdose

**Fall**

Over the next few weeks, Rhys was left pondering: should he remain an Alton, or use the Strongfork name for its obvious advantages once again? It was a question that vexed him, keeping him awake at night, plaguing his hours in the kitchen of The Diamond Pony. Even the vigorous training under Jack was not enough to keep his mind off the question. He supposed he could always ask his own father, but he knew already what the answer would be.

 _Rhys_ Xavier would say. _I’ve told you many times how difficult the culinary world can be for breakout chefs, especially one that doesn’t have a record of being classically trained under a master chef. Keeping your last name as Strongfork will ensure you a great deal of respect right out of the gate. You won’t be as harshly ridiculed for your culinary choices, either._

The thing that disturbed Rhys most of all had been that his father would be exactly right. For the most part. As soon as Jack had found out he was a Strongfork, the situation for him had changed in the kitchen. Even Troy had backed off to some extent, though Rhys wasn’t sure if that was mostly due to his fellow staff’s disapproval of his behavior towards him or actual respect.

It was Troy’s sister that was becoming the new thorn in Rhys’ side. Not that she did anything outright to threaten him. She didn’t need to. Her gentle teasing of him hid a sinister bite that went straight for his throat, latched on, and refused to let go.

One day she’d been standing on the dais that served as the stage practicing her routine when Rhys walked in, and had called him over to the bar. August was bartending that day, who was decidedly more amicable than Vasquez, so Rhys ordered a virgin margarita. Tyreen’s drink was as far from a virgin type as a beverage could become. Rhys frowned at that. He didn’t want the woman to get in trouble with Jack, after all. 

“Don’t you worry about that,” she told him, carrying her drink to a table in the corner. Rhys sat down opposite her. The restaurant not being open yet, they had the place to themselves. “Jack knows I sing a lot better when I’m allowed to wet the pipes.”

“Right.” Rhys took a sip of his margarita, slurping. “So what do you want to talk to me about?”

“Wow, I thought that’d be obvious.” She blew hair out of her eyes, smoothing it back against her skull. “Guess not, huh?” 

Looking at her sideways, Rhys said, “No….”

“I know you and Troy have beef with each other. Or, rather, my brother has beef with you. And I know why. I mean, I’m kinda on his side about all this. Some kid walks into _our_ restaurant thinking he’s a hotshot and meddles in Jack’s affairs. That’s really not the way things run around here.” Rhys opened his mouth to speak, but Tyreen leaned across the table, placing a finger over his lips. “No protesting yet. I’m only saying these things for your own good, Rhys. You haven’t really stepped on _my_ toes all that much. But you should still know how things work between the staff. Since nobody’s actually up and told you outright: you don’t fuck with the Calypso twins.” 

Finger withdrawing, Tyreen settled back into her seat, lifting her drink and sipping daintily from the rim. She gazed at Rhys through hooded eyelids, the look in her eyes one of a lazy predator.

“For the record,” Rhys said, an edge to his voice creeping up. “Troy started shit with _me_ , not vice versa.”

The laugh that erupted from Tyreen was like tinkling crystal. “As if _that_ makes a difference.” Her lips sobered, a smirk remaining painted on them. “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse. You treat me and Amara to the finest, most decadent dinner you can muster up one night, and I’ll tell my brother to back the fuck off already.”

“What? How am I supposed to manage _that_?”

She shrugged at him. “I’m sure you can figure that part out on your own. Or, of course, you could just _not_ do it and I can tell Troy _not_ to quit harassing you. Take your pick.”

Suddenly, Rhys was no longer interested in his margarita. He slumped in his chair, letting out a groan as he pushed it away. “Fine. I’ll come up with something. Just choose a day when Jack’s not here, please. I don’t need him to know about this.”

“Oooo, keeping secrets from the boss. Well, I won’t tell him if you don’t. Now the other staff, you should probably watch out for them. Some of them are backstabbers if I’ve ever seen one.”

“You mean Vasquez is a backstabber. And Athena, she means well, but boy does she end up spilling the beans sometimes.” There was an exasperated sigh from Rhys. “I’ll handle it. I worked in the kitchen alongside Jack all summer. I know how to cull the herd if I need to.”

“Good thing. I’ll be awaiting that dinner, then. Oh, and make sure you plan dessert to go with. This will be a special occasion.”

The young chef nodded. “If it means getting your brother off my back, then you got it.”

The meal that Rhys eventually created for Tyreen and Amara was exotic and indulgent. He used one of the cook books authored by Jack himself to create it, a medley of ingredients that blended together to create what was known as Moroccan lamb shanks with apricot couscous. The origins of the recipe weren’t quite clear to Rhys when he tried research them. It appeared the dish was one that was clandestine in origin, passed down through so many generations that it could be considered ancient. Rhys enjoyed it because it was similar to some curries he had prepared in his lifetime, and the bubbling, velvety, hardiness of a curry was hard not to fall absolutely, deeply in love with at first bite. Nobody in the kitchen questioned what he was doing when he began preparing such an extravagant meal, though there were more than a few curious glances. 

Troy, of course, kept quietest of all that night.

Which was probably how Rhys found himself at the technical rental garage on the edge of Opportunity with Jack and Troy by his side one morning, the bridge to cross into the greater Pandoran highlands just off the next exit. Across Jack’s back, a hunting rifle was secured by a strap, another, smaller pistol on full display at his thigh. Much to Rhys’ dismay, Troy had a gun as well; a multi-barreled Torgue pistol that was tucked into a sheath at his hip beneath the long coat he wore. Rhys admitted it was actually a rather nice coat. White leather, for one thing, with a twin skull motif hand-stitched into the back in a red and white pattern. A snake slithered from beneath either of the skulls upper jaws. It seemed the perfect coat to brave the Pandoran wilderness in, unhindered by sleeves, the leather giving some protection from the elements. He had to question the choice of color, though. It would pick up dirt and grime in a heartbeat, and Pandora was nothing if not either mixed in with lots of sand and occasionally ice and snow. 

They were going on a hunting trip, as far as Rhys knew. For what, he hadn’t the foggiest clue yet. There was nothing out in the wilds that made for any real gourmet eating. Skag burgers and rakk wings were typical local finger foods, but he’d never heard much praise for the taste. Eventually, Jack finished negotiating with the garage attendant and clambered up, surprisingly, into the passenger’s seat of a garish yellow technical. Troy took the driver’s side. Which left the entire back of the vehicle for Rhys. There was no seatbelts, he realized, as he used the back tire to lift himself into the rear. If they got into an accident, they were all dead. Not to mention if Troy stopped short, they’d all go flying out. Feeling unnerved at those prospects, Rhys knew he couldn’t back out and go home now. He’d agreed to go on this trip with Jack, despite not having his own firearm or being much use if they came across one of Pandora’s notorious bandit clans. As Troy revved the motor, Jack remedied that. He twisted around to the back seat, pulling his spare pistol from his thigh holster and proffering the weapon.

“Erm, what am I supposed to do with that?” Rhys asked, immediately thinking how dumb the question had been after the words slipped out. Embarrassment plagued him, though he thankfully didn’t blush.

“Defend yourself, what else?” came Jack’s sharp reply. His head cocked slightly, his gaze lingering on Rhys for a long moment. “Don’t tell me you’ve never shot a gun before.”

“My dad used to take me and my brother on huntings trips over on Eden growing up. We always stayed back at the lodge with mom, though. Except this one time he thought he could teach us to track animals and shoot a shotgun. I wasn’t ready for the kickback. I ended up losing my grip on the gun and nearly killing him.” Rhys paused, eyeballing the weapon still being offered to him. “So, yeah, I’ve shot a gun before. And I’ve never wanted to do it again.”

“Tragic,” Jack said in a deadpan. “Well, this is a pistol. It’s got some kickback, sure, but not nearly as much. Besides, you were probably a kid. Suit yourself if you don’t want it, though. Just remember: there are things far more dangerous on Pandora than the wildlife.”

His embarrassment swelling, Rhys felt a lick of anger flare up at Jack’s words. It remained a tiny flame, ready to be stomped out or kindled at a moment’s notice. “I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

As they crossed the bridge out of Opportunity, Troy was surprisingly cautious with the technical. The vehicle clipped along under the speed limit. Only when they reached the toll booth and cleared the suburban construct vicinity, where Rhys’ home was situated, did he gun it, deploying the gas pedal down to the floor. The technical lurched like a bucking beast, traversing the mountainous terrain at breakneck speed. At this rate, they’d reach the Dust (if that was even their destination) in under a few hours. They were already passing the Wildlife Preserve, much to Rhys’ surprise, which was typically the halfway point.

By lunchtime they were traveling under a craggy underpass only to come out on the other end kicking up sand and dirt. Here, the vegetation was sparse, the valley basins dry and barren. The Dust was a harsh land with equally harsh terrain and inhabitants. In truth, Rhys’ stomach was beginning to twist itself into knots with nervousness. 

The technical came to a stop under an overhang. They were high up on a rocky shelf, the valley below blowing sand in miniature dust devils, the treads of tire tracks barely visible. Both Jack and Troy got out of the vehicle, Jack hefting a gym bag with him. He set it down on the technical’s hood, pulling open the zipper. Beyond the ammo packed within, there was a large scope with an adjustable apparatus attached to it. Jack picked it up, slung the rifle from off his back, and fitted the piece on top of it. 

“What’re you doing?” Rhys asked, climbing out of the vehicle and coming around to watch him. The anger within him seemed to have been extinguished for now, replaced by curiosity.

“Rakks,” Jack answered as if that were answer enough. He then hooked a hand into the technical’s grill and scaled its bumper, boosting himself up on to the hood where he spread his legs out and rested back against the windshield. Troy didn’t need to do any such thing. At his height he merely placed his hands upon the hood and lifted himself up like he was doing a push up. His movements were smooth as he stretched himself out like a cat and joined Jack against the other side of the windshield.

“Room for one more up here,” Jack told Rhys.

Rhys glanced at the space between Jack and Troy, saw the latter unholstering his own gun and checking the chamber to make sure it was fully loaded. He shook his head. 

“Nah, I’m good.”

Finding a flat rock a few feet away, Rhys took up residence there. He drew his knees up, folding his arms around his long legs. It seemed like an eternity that the three of them sat waiting, nobody talking, just the silence of the Dust spiraling up around them. Eventually, the lack of noise was marred by the cocking of a gun. Rhys looked over to see that Jack had sat up, had his rifle aimed at the cloudless sky, eye pressed to the scope. In the distance, faint, the screeching cry of a rakk. It wasn’t quite in view yet, just a speck high above the dunes. 

“Here comes our meal ticket now,” Jack said, waiting until the shape was distinct enough to see the winged form and ruddy color of its body. His finger tightened on the trigger, but didn’t deploy it. Which was why the resounding crack of a shot eventually going off nearly sent Rhys tumbling off his rock. The rakk’s body seized mid-flap, its body suspended in the air for a split second. Then it was plummeting to the ground like a weighted sack, smacking the sand with a distinct crunch. “Bullseye. That winged fucker was no match.”

Troy was already sliding off the Technical. “Nice one, boss. I’ll go grab it.” He clambered down the dunes, moving into the valley below, the rakk’s body having fallen just shy of the middle of the basin.

“Watch out for skags, kiddo,” Jack called. “They like to make their burrows all around here.”

Sure enough, as soon as Jack said it, there was a chainsaw snarl from behind Troy. He turned swiftly to see that a spiny, clawed body with distinctly vertical jaws was squeezing out of a hole that had been obscured by the rock face. Once the skag had appeared, it was accompanied by two much larger ones that squirmed out behind it. They stood only a few hundred feet from Troy, their mouths parting to reveal their third jaws, the spiral of spiny protrusions within, and their bizarrely prehensile tongues. 

“Oh, shit,” Jack said, scrambling off the hood. “This ain’t good. Rhys, you’re gonna have to help me out here.”

Having sprung from his rock, Rhys couldn’t help the tremble that seized his body. His hand shook as Jack grabbed him by the wrist, shoving his spare pistol into it.

“I don’t care what childhood trauma you went through,” Jack was telling him. “We gotta get Troy out of there or I’m down a salad chef. Just aim for one of the skags and not us and you’ll be fine.”

Troy had leveled his own pistol with one hand, was looking down the sights of it straight at the skag directly in his path. 

“I—I can’t,” Rhys said, trying to shove the gun back to Jack. “There’s only three of them. I’m sure you two can take them.”

“I can assure you there’ll be more than just three,” Jack insisted through gritted teeth. “Now take the goddam gun already and stop being a pissbaby.”

That seemed to halt Rhys’ protests, though he couldn’t say exactly why. It wasn’t like Jack calling him insulting names actually nagged at him. But he found himself taking the gun, the grip heftier than he figured it for, the barrel long and sleek. It looked like a Jakob’s model, much like Jack’s rifle, and with the help of his cybernetic hand to hold it up, Rhys managed to get a steady grip. 

“I’d say aim for the mouths, but there’s no way in hell you’d make that. So just go for the soft spots if you can.”

“ _What_ soft spots?” Rhys asked, creeping around the outcropping behind Jack, as not to be seen or heard by the skags. So far, they only seemed aware of Troy, who was trying to back up so he didn’t harm himself in the process of firing his gun. Torgue’s always packed an explosive punch that could often backfire. 

Jack lifted his rifle, lining up to take a shot. “Anywhere that’s not armored,” he said through gritted teeth. The next moment, he was squeezing the trigger of his firearm, sending a shot that went straight through the back of one of the bigger skag’s heads. It fell to the sand and began to writhe, not quite dead. “Shit. Fucking thick-skulled murder tanks. See what I mean?”

That started the avalanche. Troy deployed the trigger of his own gun, an incendiary round striking the same fallen skag and erupting in flames. Within moments the skag was charbroiled, burned to a blackened crisp. Shifting his aim to the other enormous skag, Troy made to shoot once again, but the smallest of the trio rushed him. It leaped, sending him stumbling back, a howl of annoyance escaping him as he nearly tripped over the dead rakk that was still lying in the sand.

Busy reloading, Jack was out of commission for the moment. Rhys knew he had to do something and quickly. Cybernetic fingers helped his flesh hand keep the gun steady. He remembered the lessons his father had taught him, all those years ago traipsing through the woods. Aim down your sights. Aim higher than your target. Go for the broadest targets. Keep the stock aligned with your shoulder. The last lesson he didn’t need with the pistol, but he remembered that’s where he’d erred so magnificently that first time. In retrospect, his father probably shouldn’t have given someone as slight as he’d been at age twelve a weapon that powerful. But Rowan had handled it so gracefully, with as much skill as someone with experience would wield it, and he’d been so jealous of his brother.

With that memory unfurled like a poisonous flower, Rhys wasn’t exactly careful when he pulled the trigger of the pistol. The shot hit, but not it’s intended target, dragging one of the skag’s legs out from under it instead. The beast was intelligent enough to know that shot hadn’t come from Troy, and it turned around, snarling in Rhys’ direction. Again, Troy was too close to shoot outright. Instead he gathered some momentum, bringing his boot up under the skag’s body and slamming the steel toe up into it. There was a sharp whine as it was punted across the sand, Jack able to take aim in that span of time. His shot rang out, echoing across the basin, the skag rearing up once before collapsing into the dust and dirt. 

The last of the skags was the largest, and it stood with its legs splayed, its head whipping around as its tongue lashed like a miniature whip. Smirking, Troy pointed his gun straight at its gaping mouth. His finger squeezed the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. The beast’s mouth erupted in flames, an ear piercing whimper carrying up through the air. It was choking a second later, the sounds coming from its ruined throat eerily human.

“That should take care of the last of them,” Troy called, laughing with giddy triumph.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Jack called back, making his way down the dune into the valley below, his rifle cradled against his chest. “Skags multiply like murderous bunnies in the Dust. That burrow’s probably brimming with them. Grab the rakk carcass and let’s get out of here before the rest of them come out and decide to say hi.”

Crouching over the only skag body that had come out mostly unscathed, the one with a throat full of fire having run off probably to go die someplace hidden, Jack took some rope he had attached to his belt and trussed it up by its feet. Without so much as a grunt he lifted it and slung it on to his back, moving slowly back up to where the technical was parked. Grabbing the rakk by its wings, Troy did the same.

“We should get to higher ground and make camp there,” Jack told them. “This way probably nothing will bother us.”

They got back in the vehicle, the lifeless skag and rakk crammed into the backseat with Rhys, flopping like boneless sacks of meat, much to his disgust. He sat as far away from the carcasses as he could manage, fearing even the slightest of touches.

“What exactly are you going to do with these things?” he asked, gesturing to the dead animals on the seat beside him. He realized he was still holding the pistol, that he’d never put the safety back on. With the heat of anxiety burning through him, he clicked it back in place.

“I’m a goddam chef, Rhys, what do you think I’m going to do with them?” Jack said in retort. 

“You’re going to actually _eat_ them? Why on Pandora would you do that?”

“Look, not all us chefs were born supping on caviar and tartar like you. My origins are a lot more humble, ya know? And I know for a fact with the right spices and techniques, rakk and skag makes for good goddam eating. How can you even appreciate haute cuisine if you don’t appreciate the roots of it all?” When Rhys didn’t say anything in reply, Jack held out of his hand and crooked his fingers. “Nice shooting, by the way. I mean, it was nothing great, but at least you tried. I think I feel safer holding on to the gun myself, though.”

Rhys was glad to hand the weapon back over. 

The terrain became a lot more craggy the higher they traveled, the technical rocking and jolting, Troy thankfully letting up on the gas as the road became precarious. They found another outcropping, this time at an altitude that most skags wouldn’t be found, though Rhys knew the animals were pretty good climbers with their clawed appendages. Still, he felt safer as they got out of the vehicle this time, his back cracking in several places as he stretched it. His ass also hurt from the rocky ride, but Jack didn’t give him much time to think about that. He pulled a shovel from the vehicle and shoved it in Rhys’ hands.

“Go dig a coupla pits with Troy,” he told the younger chef. Over his button-down shirt and jeans, he was putting on a butcher’s apron. “I’m gonna prepare the meat and make the spits.”

Glancing over to where Troy was already digging in the dirt, Rhys wasn’t thrilled at having to join. But he took the shovel all the same, standing a bit apart from the tall Calypso and striking the edge of the shovel against the crust of the ground. It penetrated more easily than he expected, and he began the grueling task of burrowing into the Pandoran terrain.

“I gotta say,” Troy said after some time, stopping to wipe a sheen of sweat from his forehead and sweep his drooping hair back. “You didn’t do too bad before. With the skag, I mean. That thing was hellbent on munching on my ass. You kinda stopped that from happening.”

Pausing in his digging, Rhys straightened up, his expression twisted into incredulity. “Are you actually paying me a compliment?”

“Hey, man, if it bothers you that much, I can take it back.”

“No, it’s just that—come on, Troy. You’ve never been nothing but a total asshole to me.”

The other man shrugged, picking up his shovel again and tossing dirt away with it. “Tyreen may have convinced me to be a little nicer.”

“I know she promised to get you off my back, but this isn’t what I was expecting. You don’t—if you don’t want to be cordial with me, you don’t have to force yourself to be. Just don’t be a total douchebag. That’s all I’m asking.”

There was a long puff of air that escaped Troy as if he was breathing a sigh of relief. “Good, cos I don’t think I could stand to be nice to you every moment we’re around each other. You and me, we’re just not gonna get along one hundred percent.” A pause from the man as he straightened up again and peered into the pit he’d dug. “Not that I’m still not grateful for you for shooting that skag. Cos I am.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty convinced you and I aren’t really meant to get along all that well. Just clashing personalities I guess. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“What are you two blabbermouths yapping about over there?” Jack called. He had a utility roll lined with different knives laid out on the hood of the technical, a cleaver currently wielded in his fist. He brought it down on one of the rakk’s wings, hacking it off with practiced skill. Blood streaked his apron, some stains fresh, others dark where they saturated the material. “I hope you’ve got those pits finished.”

“Yeah, sure do,” Troy called back, sticking his shovel in the dirt until it stood upright on its own. He crossed the space to where Jack was working, leaning on the side of the vehicle. “I’m gonna have myself a snack break. You wanna join me, Jack?”

The chef looked up from his work, glancing at Rhys, who was still digging the pit, then nodded. “Eh, couldn’t hurt, I guess.” Jack sniffed, brushing the strands of hair off his forehead that had become damp and stringy under the sun’s gaze. “Whatcha got with you?”

“What do you think?” Troy replied with a smirk, reaching for his coat, which he’d left in the vehicle. He rummaged in the front pocket, retrieving a small zippered pouch. “All your favorites and maybe a little something extra for later.”

“What would I do without you, kiddo?”

“Dunno.” Being discreet, Troy removed two small baggies of powdered substance from the pouch. He slid one over the top of the technical to Jack. “Go totally fucking insane maybe?”

Making sure Rhys wasn’t watching again, Jack tipped a line out on to his finger, snuffling it up. He tilted his head back, sniffing a few times, a groan of pleasure escaping him. Troy laid his out on the hood of the Technical and took a small metal tube from his pants pocket, snorting the substance through it. When he looked up, his eyes widened.

“Shit, Jack, you’re bleeding.”

“Fuck.” Holding his sleeve up to his nose, Jack saw that it was true when the white garment came away crimson. “Of all the goddam times.”

“Hey, what’s going on over there?” Noticing the unrest in the pair, Rhys stopped digging.

“Got a fucking nosebleed,” Jack shouted, gesturing. “Must be the heat. Nothing to worry your pretty little ass about.” Leaning against the vehicle, Jack took a great, gulping breath. “Aw, shit, I don’t feel so great all a sudden.”

“Jack?” Troy questioned, his voice thinning with concern. He reached out with his good hand to catch the man just as his knees buckled. “Come over here and help me!” he shouted at Rhys over his shoulder.

Dropping his shovel, Rhys rushed over to Jack’s other side, looping the man’s arm around his neck and lifting. He used his robotic shoulder to bear most of the weight, Jack sagging against the two of them.

“I’m fine,” the man insisted between ragged breaths. “I just need to lie down for a bit. Put me in the backseat of the technical.”

“You don’t look fine to me,” Rhys insisted. “Troy, help me strip him down. He could have heat stroke.” When Troy didn’t immediately obey, Rhys sighed. “Are you just going to—”

“It’s not heat stroke,” the other man interrupted, hair plastered to his face with sweat. He helped Rhys wrestle the apron off Jack’s form, than out of the button-down shirt beneath. “Pants too?” At Rhys’ nod, they worked in unison until they had Jack down to a tank top and boxer shorts. As they were attempting to get him in the vehicle, Troy blurted out, “He’s having an overdose.”

“An overdose on _what_?”

“We were just—I didn’t—look, it doesn’t fucking matter.” There was gravel in Troy’s words as they took on a disgruntled tone. “I got something that can help. Just lay him on his back on the seat. Yeah, that’s good enough.”

Scrambling across his throat, Rhys’ fingers pressed into Jack’s jugular vein. “His pulse is out of control. I know some CPR, but we’re way out in the Dust. I don’t need to tell you what that means if he has a goddamn heart attack. So you better do what you’re going to do fast.”

There was a gurgling noise from Jack, his body seizing and jerking. Sweating profusely so that the stains now licked at his clothing, Rhys’ brows knit with worry, as did Troy’s as he rummaged in one of the pouches attached to his belt. His hand came away clutching a strange apparatus that was shaped like a bullet with down-turned wings and a plunger on one end. Without ceremony, he shoved the bullet portion up one of Jack’s nostrils and jammed on the plunger. Jack began to cough and shot up in the seat, his body quaking even as he took several gasping breaths. He swallowed thickly, audibly, his gaze casting between the two other men, the whites of his eyes marred by reddened veins.

For a long time, nobody said anything, Jack swiping at his face as his breathing regulated. Then he was braying with laughter, the noise raucous as it echoed upward towards the sky. Both Troy and Rhys looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, the latter of them growing increasingly annoyed.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, Jack?” Rhys demanded, feeling a surge of righteous anger roiling up through his guts. “You almost kicked the bucket on us. It’s not funny.”

“Not the first time I’ve overdosed.” Jack’s voice sounded thick, as if he’d just swallowed something unpleasant. “Don’t do drugs kid, okay? They’ll fuckin’ kill ya.”

“Why are you doing _drugs_ all the way out here, anyway? Do you _have_ a death wish?” Turning to Troy, Rhys’ gaze was like a honed blade. “You have something to do with this, don’t you?”

“Whoa there, Rhys. Don’t get your panties all in a twist. This isn’t anything all that new. Trust me. And Troy may provide the goods, but it isn’t like he ain’t doing something I didn’t ask him to.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to hear this right now.” Glaring, Rhys made his way out of the technical, his shoes hitting the dirt with more force than he intended. “I was starting to think you weren’t as much of an asshole as I originally thought, but now I can see I was dead wrong. And you.” Gaze smoldering, it landed on Troy. “You’re nothing but an enabling, opportunistic leech.”

“Hey, watch your mouth!” Troy protested, upper lip skinning back to reveal his metallic dental modifications. 

Rhys’ back was already turned to the pair, his footsteps carrying him over to where the rakk Jack had been butchering lay, the job left partially finished. He took up the cleaver, hacking at the beast the way one would an animal for the slaughter. He may not know the finer points of preparing a rakk or skag, but he understood the basics of meat butchery, and right now channeling his energy into anything violent seemed satisfying.

When Jack finally made his way over to help him in the process (still in only tank top and boxers), he didn’t know how much time had passed, nor did he move away to avoid the other man. It had been long enough that his wrath had been reduced to a dull roar that sent out the occasional tendril of annoyance but otherwise remained unmoved. In silence, they reduced the animals to choice cuts of meat, Jack rubbing spices and herbs that he’d brought with him into the tender parts. Assisting each other, they skewered the pieces on to the spits, carrying them over to where Troy had started up the fires.

While the food cooked, dusk began to fall. Soon it would grow too dark and too dangerous to travel back to Opportunity, and Rhys was becoming concerned.

“Shouldn’t we be heading back soon?” he asked, any traces of anger in his words long since dissipated. It had been replaced by wary concern. “The last thing we need is to get a blowout or something in the middle of the Dust in the dark.”

“Relax,” Jack told him, drawing out the word. He moved from where he’d been turning the spit to the back of the technical, where he rummaged in the utility box behind the back seat until apparently finding what he was looking for. The tent parts were dumped unceremoniously to the ground. “Food isn’t done yet, and we’re not heading back until the morning.”

“Is there only just the one tent?”

“Don’t worry,” Troy’s voice carried over. He’d spread his coat over the hood of the vehicle and had taken up residence there. His hand was propped behind his head and, in his hook, there appeared to be held a hand rolled cigarette. Rhys narrowed his gaze. Though there was no pungent stench on the air, after what happened with Jack, he didn’t trust Troy to be doing anything so ordinary as smoking a regular cigarette. “I’m perfectly fine staying out here under the stars. Someone should keep watch, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Picking up a long pole, Jack drove it into the dirt, the end quivering in place. “Come give me a hand, Rhys. Since lazy ass over there sure ain’t gonna help.”

“You should’ve told me before I got comfortable,” Troy remarked, taking a long drag from his cigarette. As he exhaled a plume of smoke, he coughed a few times. “I ain’t getting up now.”

By the time Jack and Rhys had finished building the tent, darkness had fallen entirely. Sitting within the structure, spreading out the bedrolls Jack had brought along by the light of a lantern, Rhys gave into exhaustion. He collapsed on top of one, feeling as if his whole body was melting into it. Jack poked his head in, the sounds of chewing filling the small space.

“Are you gonna fall asleep on me without eating anything?” he said. “I got a rakk wing with your name on it. Trust me, you’re gonna love it.”

There was a groan from Rhys. He picked up his head, peering into the darkness, then found it to be too heavy for his body to lift and slumped back down. Disappearing from the tent flap, Jack came back a moment later with a tin plate brimming with slices of charred meat. He sat down on the other unfurled bedroll, crossing his bare ankles over each other and setting down the plate and a canteen.

“Come on, Rhysie. You’re probably goddam starving.”

Turning over, the smell of the cooked meat assaulted Rhys’ olfactory senses. It seemed to punch him somewhere deep in his gut, drawing out the hunger that was just lurking at the edges of his conscious. All at once he felt like he was salivating, and he reached out, tearing off a hunk of meat and popping it greedily between his lips. He chewed a few times, letting the taste permeate his mouth.

“That’s…actually really good,” he said with some hesitancy, swallowing and taking up another bite. “Like, _really_ good. Much better than I expected for Pandoran wildlife.”

“What I say, eh? It pays to revisit the roots of it all sometimes. Teaches you a lot about where good food comes from and all that shit.” With an equally greedy hand, Jack snatched some of the meat up for himself, washing it down with a swig from the canteen. “You know, it’s kinda funny, you mentioning going on those hunting trips with your dad. I used to take my own family on hunting outings as well. It was like a weekend vacation. Me, my wife, and my little Angel. Only I wasn’t stupid like Xavier in handing my child a goddam firearm to play around with.”

“To be fair, I was almost a teenager that first time.”

Rhys’ protest was dismissed with a wave. “Whatever. Those were good times, though. We’d rent a cabin on one of the Edens. It’d be around winter, and Angel would make these funny snow people that she’d be so proud to show me when I got back. Dinner would usually be what I caught. Rabbit or boar, or sometimes deer, depending how lucky I was that day.” He sighed, exhaling through his nose. “I kinda miss that, ya know?”

“I really don’t miss the hunting trips with dad. They were sort of boring. No holovids or anything. Rowan looked forward to them more than I did.” Both Rhys’ shoulders heaved in a shrug.

“Angel would probably tell me that too if I asked her these days.”

“Not to be nosy or piss you off or anything.” Rhys reached for another slab of rakk, gnawing at it as he ate around a bone. “But you said you were getting a divorce, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Taking up the canteen, Rhys swigged form it, realizing it was not filled with water a second too late. He coughed as he swallowed the mouthful of liquid, his throat burning as it made its way down. His own fist pounded at his chest a few times, body shuddering.

The tent filled with the sound of chuckling. “That’s what you get for bringing up my personal business.”

“What the hell was that, rotgut?”

“Just plain old whiskey. You don’t drink much, do you?”

Rhys coughed again, shaking his head. “How do you manage to put so much shit in your body and not end up….” He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.

“You saw today that I’m not invincible. But if you’re looking for a more philosophical answer, perseverance.”

“Uh huh. I think that’s it for me. I’m going to hit the hay.”

“You haven’t even tried the skag yet. Skag’s even better than rakk. Well, if you like your meat gamey.”

“In the morning.”

“That’ll get you sicker than eating from a mold infested kitchen. I’ll go grab ya some now.”

It only took a few minutes for Jack to ferry back the plate, now piled high with more cuts of meat. Wanting to make short work of the taste test, Rhys grabbed a piece before Jack could even set it down.

“Why were you even bringing the divorce up, anyway?” Jack asked as he settled back on the other bedroll, drinking from his canteen again. 

“I was just curious,” Rhys admitted with a yawn. “Is she leaving you because of the drugs? It’s the drugs, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not—yeah, alright, fine. When you’re snorting thousands of dollars up your nose weekly, and you’re a complete train wreck because of it, it’s hard to stand by your side and endure it. That’s the truth.” There was another swig form the canteen by Jack. “Plus Troy and Tyreen started hanging around the apartment at all hours of the day and night. It was bad enough with Tim already there. I mean, at least she was already used to him living with us since I got the place, though. And he keeps to himself. But the twins, they think its party central. If my daughter was living there, I wouldn’t tolerate that shit. But she ain’t, and as long as I let them crash at my place, they provide me with the goods.”

“Ever thought of just, well, quitting?”

“Fuck no. Tried the narcotics anonymous meetings once, wasn’t for me. And I’d never survive even a day in rehab. I swear, I’d wring someone’s neck the first dry hour.”

“It was worth asking, I guess.” Rhys finished off another hunk of skag. “You know, Jack. I’m not the happiest about this conversation right now. It makes me kind of—well, nevermind about my feelings. I’m sure you don’t even care. I’m just glad we talked. You don’t need to keep things from me. I’m not one to go spreading shit around.”

“Yeah, I know, Rhysie.” Adjusting himself until he was laying on his side, Jack propped his head up with one hand. The other palm came down on Rhys’ shoulder, patting him a few times. “You’re a good intern, compared to some of the ones I’ve had in the past. I mean that. Glad to have you in my kitchen. Hopefully, we can make an executive chef out of you yet.”

“Thanks. Here’s hoping.”

Suddenly Jack’s face was looming closer, seeming to hover over Rhys’ own. Afraid that Jack had been toying with him this entire time, Rhys felt the breath freeze in his lungs with fear. He gulped loudly, ready for whatever punishment Jack was about to dish out. But then he felt something soft and pliant press against his lips, warmth meeting warmth, and he realized with a jolt that the man was kissing him. He nearly bolted up and away, ready to break them apart, but his mind seized his body, keeping it held in place. This was pleasant; this was something not to shy away from, it seemed to whisper to him, and he was helpless to do anything but obey. A tongue prodded his mouth, and he opened it without much thought, feeling it slip past his teeth and collide with his own.

Rhys was making out with his boss, and neither of them were doing a goddam thing to stop it. He felt where Jack’s hand had latched on to his shoulder, the man reeling him in closer. The plate of food was pushed aside so Jack could draw the younger chef to himself. Rhys was on a roller coaster, ascending the highest arch, his body preparing to take the plunge down the other side, tumble into a scream that would be ripped from his lungs by the velocity of the wind. But that didn’t happen, Jack drawing away after some minutes, his lips red and swollen even in the low light of the lantern. 

“Tell me you don’t want this as much as I do right now, Rhys, and I’ll stop right here.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter contains a brief discussion of past sexual assault

There was a trembling somewhere deep inside Rhys, starting in the depths of his viscera, pouring outward as if trying to spread to every fiber of his being. He tamped it down as best as he could, staring at Jack in the confines of the tent with mouth slightly agape. His vocal chords refused to work, his throat constricting around nothing but empty air. At the edge of consciousness, he could hair the heavy _thump thump_ of his heart. He knew he probably looked like a fool, but it was as if he’d lost control of his muscles, unable to unravel himself from the position he was in.

The look in Jack’s gaze was impatient. He aimed a finger at Rhys’ shoulder, poking into the meat of it.

“Not for nothin’, Rhysie, but you’re really killing the mood.”

That seemed to snap Rhys out of the trance he was in. He blinked once, shifting in place. His mouth finally snapped shut, lips pursed as his head scrambled for words.

“I….” He was unable to get beyond that.

Beside him, Jack leaned in close again, so close his breath graced Rhys’ skin, humid and warm. 

“There ain’t a whole lot I can interpret from that, kitten. But I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you’re just speechless with desire.”

Then Jack was closing the distance between them again, their mouths melding once more. Slippery warmth probed at Rhys’ lips, not asking for entry, but demanding it. He couldn’t help it, his body responding of its own accord, welcoming Jack’s tongue into his mouth, his head empty, his brain swimming in fog. He felt a hand smooth over his side, across the slats of his ribs. It continued onward to his back, fingers dancing along his spine, the meat of Jack’s palm smoothing circles over the wings of his shoulder blades. It was like an electric current had taken him by surprise, coursing through him, tingling, tensing him up. The palm traveled lower, and lower still, resting in his lumbar region, dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. 

He could probably make it stop, if he really wanted to. This was Jack Wolfbaine, renowned but slipping chef. Also his boss. This was a pathway he was unsure he wanted to tumble down along, like adding a wild, exotic ingredient to a recipe that was already perfect. In his pants, he could feel himself stiffening, Jack’s slow manipulations of his body coaxing more than subtle desires from him. 

The hand on his back took the plunge, finally shifting. Thankfully not beneath his waistband. He could feel Jack’s grip on his ass, though, the fabric barrier between them feeling like it was barely there. As a result, Rhys squirmed until he collided with Jack’s body, the older chef doubling his fervor. Jack’s mouth was wet and hot in the most delicious way, and Rhys couldn’t help the slight moan that tore up from his throat. 

From beyond their intertwined world, there came a rustling sound. It was quiet at first, barely registering in Rhys’ ears. The sound became increasingly louder, closer, and hard to ignore. A shadow passed over the outside of the tent. Jack broke away, then, shoving Rhys back so suddenly that the younger man was left gasping. He rolled on to his back, chest heaving with his breaths. 

“Hey, bossman,” came Troy’s voice. Suddenly he was crouched outside the tent, his head poking into the open flap. “Boss. Your comm’s been going off non-stop. It’s driving me fucking bonkers out here.”

His hair unkempt, flopping over his forehead as he moved, Jack scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’re you talking about?” he asked on a rush of breath.

“You know, your comm.” Troy jabbed a thumb in the direction behind him. “You left it in the technical. It’s ringing off the hook. Didn’t want to pick it up cos privacy and all. You might wanna check it out, though.”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.” Pinching the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb, Jack’s head thunked back against the bedroll. For an uncounted amount of time, he just lay there like that, until he finally sat up and unfurled himself. “Alright, don’t get your panties all twisted. I’m coming.”

Troy’s gaze fell on Rhys, narrowing. The chef was just recovering, adjusting himself until he was upright.

“What were you two up to, anyway?” The accusation in Troy’s voice was palpable.

“Nothing, really,” Rhys was quick to answer. “Eating and sleeping, mostly.” He let out a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“Doesn’t look like that from where I am.”

“Well, he ain’t lying,” Jack was quick to defend. “We were both tired as shit. Now get out of my way, will ya? I need to see what these ‘so urgent’ calls are about.”

The look in Troy’s gaze was of someone who’d been betrayed by their closest friend. He stared at Jack for what seemed like an extended period of time, nobody saying a word or moving, as if they had all been cast in stone. And then Troy rose to his full towering height, stepping out of the way. Jack ducked through the open tent flap, swallowed by the darkness beyond the glow of the lantern. 

When both Jack and Troy had been gone for some time, Rhys took a great heaving breath, exiting the tent himself, trying to put out of his head what had occurred between him and the head chef. He emerged to find the pair gathered around the technical, lit in harsh contrast by the light of another lantern.

“Fuck,” Jack cursed, fiddling with the comm in his hand. “I can’t believe this is fucking happening to me right now.”

It was on Rhys’ mind to ask what Jack was talking about, what was going on. But his mind flashed him an aftershock of the feeling that had hounded him when Jack had kissed him, grabbed his ass, and a certain throbbing in his pants made him hang back. It was conflicting, that flicker of longing. In some ways, he was annoyed Troy had interrupted just when things were starting to heat up; on the other, he hated the fact that he longed for more. Mixing business with pleasure in the kitchen was far from professional.

Chewing on a piece of skag or maybe rakk (cooked, they didn’t look all that different from each other), Troy swallowed audibly, leaning back on the vehicle. 

“What’s up?” he asked Jack, saving Rhys the chore.

Jack held up a finger, indicating for Troy to remain quiet as he deployed the comm’s play button. Probably for the second time in a row, judging by the scowl on his face. Rhys noticed he was wearing an ear piece now. The minutes dragged on in silence, the wastes around them quiet in the darkness save for the rapping of Troy’s fingers on the frame of the technical. The young chef didn’t dare breath a word himself, fearful that Jack would bring down his wrath if he so much as made a sound.

“Of all the shitty things to happen right now.” Jack was livid as he yanked the ear piece out and slammed it on top of the vehicle. Expecting to hear the crunch of broken electronics, Rhys was surprised when he didn’t. “Zane’s been trying to get in touch with me for awhile. Says he caught word that we’re getting a surprise visit from some critics at opening tomorrow. Doesn’t know how true that is yet, but you can bet your ass if rumor got around to my kitchen, it was sent around on purpose. And only you-know-who would do something to stress me the fuck out like that.”

The lantern cutting through swaths of darkness that enrobed him, Troy cocked his head. “I…think I know who you’re talking about.” The salad chef’s gaze rolled towards the heavens. He stroked his sharp chin with a finger. “That arrogant fucker with the pompadour and the icy bitch queen—those the ones?”

“Those would be them, yeah.” Face stretching into a smirk, there was a mischievous glint to Jack’s gaze. “Last I checked, that _icy bitch queen_ was real sweet on ya.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Jack’s smirk morphed into a bare-toothed grin. “And last I checked, you were kinda into the way she was treating you.”

“Oh my god.” Troy rolled his eyes. 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’.”

“You don’t need to be saying it out loud in front of fucking Rhys.”

“Ah, Rhys isn’t gonna say a word about it. You can trust him. That right, Rhysie?”

From where he was standing, Rhys fidgeted. He couldn’t help but feel Jack’s statement was loaded; that he wasn’t just talking about Troy’s business, but the business between themselves.

“O-of course,” Rhys answered, rubbing the back of his neck with his flesh hand. “Wouldn’t breath a word of it.”

“Better not.” Troy’s words came out muttered, his tone that of a petulant child.

Rubbing at his forehead, which had become wrinkled with stress, Rhys said, “Can we just get some shut eye? I think I’ve pretty much had enough excitement for today.”

“You okay?” The question came from Jack, who was crossing the distance between them. He reached out and put a meaty hand on Rhys’ shoulder, which almost made the younger man shy away. He was glad when he managed to resist, though the memories of only a short time before came flooding back once again. Jack’s hand was as seductive in its platonic state as it was when it had been intimately exploring him. “You’re looking a little green around the gills there.”

“I’m fine.” And this time Rhys did jerk away, his mind swirling with a maelstrom of imagery he wanted to set fire to, burn from memory, if only because of the way his body was responding so readily to it. “Probably not used to eating, er, fresh wildlife. I just need to lie down.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea if we all get some sleep.” As he spoke, Jack’s gaze didn’t leave Rhys, his expression unreadable. “We need to be on the road at first light if we’re gonna get back to the Pony before our guests show up. I can only prep the crew so much over a comm, and I wanna be there personally to make sure nobody gets the bright idea to fuck up.”

With those words, the conversation withered and died. Rhys turned his back on Jack and Troy, retreating to the tent and splaying himself on the bedroll he’d been lying on earlier. Some time later, he heard Jack enter the tent, but when he cracked an eye open, he saw that the man had laid down with his back turned to him. That was…unexpected. Certain Jack would have tried to make a move again, he didn’t know what to make of the situation. He supposed the comm message had derailed whatever mood the head chef had been in, jangled things back into place in his head, maybe. On the other hand, maybe not. The look on Jack’s face when Rhys had pulled away from him was clandestine in nature, telling him everything and nothing simultaneously. Now he had to lie there and wonder if Jack was pissed at him.

By the time Rhys’ mind simmered down enough for him to fall into a deep slumber, he was being nudged awake by a paw of a hand.

XXX

The ride back to Opportunity was uneventful. In the driver’s seat, Jack this time, Troy curled up on the passenger’s side snoring away. Jostled in the backseat, Rhys was too much of a lethargic blob himself to really care, though he didn’t know how the salad chef could manage to sleep through such a rugged ride. Rhys felt so knocked around with the way Jack handled the vehicle that he was certain his internal organs were being rearranged.

They dropped off the technical at the rental place, Jack taking a small semblance of delight in kicking Troy out of the vehicle, and rode the subway uptown. By the time they were entering the Pony, there was only an hour and a half left until opening.

Fl4k and Janey were manning the front of house with Vasquez at the bar and Tim overseeing things. Gathering the four into a huddle, Jack stopped to address them, waving Rhys and Troy onward towards the kitchen. The pair of them entered to the sight of Zane scrambling at his station, not even breaking his stride as he addressed them.

“Oi, you two. Go on and get dressed. Me, Wilhelm, and Athena have been in the shite since this morn.”

It felt like it took Rhys eons to change into his chef whites. Rubbing grit from his eyes that seemed to have embedded there from their trip through the Dust, Rhys couldn’t help but think of Jack and the night before as he buttoned his uniform. With what had happened between them, the way it all ended as they bedded down for the night, he didn’t know what to expect from the day. That kind of uncertainty was precarious, left him feeling less than confident. He would have to work harder today if he wanted to bring his best to the table. With a sigh, he was filled with a certain cold dread that was gathering in his core and beginning to snake outward. 

Shit. Of all the days for such a thing to happen, it had to be the one where the critics showed up.

Rhys came back into the kitchen not nearly as ready to begin cooking as he was meant to be. Having only needed to slip into an apron, Troy was already at his salad station, prepping vegetables with a knife. A deep breath was taken by Rhys. He ignored the rest of the kitchen staff for the time being in lieu of sauntering over to the tall Calypso twin.

“I really, _really_ hate to ask you,” Rhys said, smoothing his hair back. Any more nervous, and he’d be wrangling it between his fingers. “But you seemed to know about who and what we’re going to be dealing with today. You think you can help me out just this once and give me the run down?”

“And why should I do that?” Troy asked, unwilling to look up from his vegetables. With hope, Rhys noticed his tone was not exactly dismissive. 

“Because you and I both know what’s hanging in the balance for Jack if things go badly today.” Lowering his voice several octaves, Rhys continued. “I’ve been here all summer and I see the numbers we do in a day. If it gets any worse, I can guarantee this place isn’t going to last much longer. Jack will cut his losses, and everyone here will be out of a job.”

“What makes you so sure of that, Mr. Hotshot?”

“My family’s been in this industry for decades. I’ve heard and seen what happens when restaurants can’t fill enough tables to turn a profit. Plus Jack’s already lost a Michelin star.”

“What are you two whispering about over there?” came Zane’s voice, a wave of guilt washing over Rhys at the question. “We ain’t got time for chit chat. Rhys, you’re supposed to be bloody assisting Athena. Get on it.”

Rhys turned in Zane’s direction, sighing. Making his way to beside Athena, he spoke loud enough for the whole kitchen to hear him.

“I was just asking Troy about these critics. It would be better for all of us if I knew what to expect.”

“You can expect one of the most pompous asses in the industry,” came a voice that drifted over from the kitchen doors. “And one of the most deadliest women you’ll ever see pen a critic’s column. They’re schmucks. Well, Katagawa is, at least. Aurelia’s not quite as—”

The pan in Rhys’ grip hit the ground with a loud _clang_. The head chef scowled, gesturing.

“The fuck was that?” he demanded. “Are you fucking turning into my brother now?”

Frozen in place, Rhys could only manage a minute shake of his head. “D-did you say Katagawa?” 

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Katagawa _junior_?”

“That would be the one. You know him?”

“Fuck,” Rhys spat out. “Dammit. I can’t be here.”

Jack’s brows drew into a ‘v’ between his eyes, the corner of his lips dipping into something unfriendly. “What do you mean _you can’t be here_?”

“If he shows up, _when_ he shows up. I can’t be here. He _can’t_ know I’m working here.”

“And why’s that?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Jack stepped closer. “Why can’t you fucking be in my restaurant when the goddam critic shows up? Why the fuck does it matter if he knows you’re working for me?”

“I can’t explain it to you right now, Jack,” Rhys all but shouted in the head chef’s face, quickly losing his grip on his tamped down anxiety. He bent to retrieve the pan, putting it back on the counter. “Please. I’ll make it up to you same way or how. But I need to not be here with him in the restaurant. You just have to trust me on this.”

“First off, when you’re in my kitchen, you address me as _chef_ ,” Jack reprimanded him. “Second of all, there’s no fucking way I’m sending you home right now. _You_ don’t get special privilege. I don’t care if you’re a Strongfork or whoever the hell you are. I don’t even care if I actually like you.”

It looked like someone had ripped Rhys’ heart out and thrown it on the ground, shattering it into millions of pieces. The expression on his face was a grimace; the expression of someone about to cry out in physical pain. He stepped back from Jack, breathing hard once, twice. Jack must have noticed his demeanor shift, must have seen the look on his face, because something about his own expression eased up.

“Would you at least give me a proper explanation if we talked in private?”

Though it took a moment for Rhys to process the words, he eventually nodded, his breath calming.

“Good. Let’s go to the basement.”

XXX

The basement was a humid, cramped place that wasn’t exactly the most comfortable location to hold a serious conversation in Rhys’ opinion. Staring down at the floor, he crossed his arms over his chest, more in a gesture of reservation than defense. Jack took up roost on a nearby shelf of dried goods, leaning back against it and tapping a cigarette out of the pack he’d produced from his pocket. The cigarette traveled to between his lips, but he didn’t light up. His teeth ground at the filter, the subtle sound audible in the silence that hung on the air.

“Well,” he said after awhile, “are you going to tell me what’s got you spooked so much about Katagawa or what?”

“Alright,” Rhys said after more silence had dragged on. He didn’t look up, scuffing his shoe against the cement floor. “It’s kind of complicated, but not really.”

“Uh huh. Go on. I’m all ears, Rhysie.”

“He used to work for my father, at Strongfork’s. Dad wasn’t crazy about his attitude, but he was a good chef. Impeccable, really. Definitely a rising star. And, you know, dad couldn’t let that go just because he didn’t get along with him. _Rhys,_ he’d tell me whenever I brought it up, _sometimes you make sacrifices for the greater good_. The greater good being Strongfork’s here, of course.”

“Of course.” Thumb on the wheel of a lighter, Jack finally ignited the cigarette, puffing on it until the cherry burned bright red. He pulled it from his lips, blowing smoke out of his nostrils, somehow making the act seem pretentious. “I can get behind that, actually. Plenty of chefs I didn’t like have come and gone from the Pony. Shit, I don’t even get along with Flynt half the time these days. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna fire him, though. Even I admit he’s an asset.”

“Did you two ever get along?”

Jack gave Rhys a sideways glance, as if debating whether to answer or not. “Once upon a time, sure.”

Something about that fact gave Rhys pause. He spent a moment or two dissecting the statement before deciding that it didn’t really matter.

“Anyway, I was above Katagawa in the kitchen. Being Xavier’s son and all. He resented me for it. Hated me, probably. But it didn’t manifest in anything like, say, sabotage. Katagawa was more of a ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ guy. And he started trying to get himself in my good graces.”

When Rhys didn’t immediately continue, Jack made a gesture with his cigarette. The younger chef coughed into his fist, his face beginning to flush.

“So he tried that method, and it really didn’t work with me. I was much less…tolerant of him than my father was. I’m sure I got fed up with him a few times and snapped.” A nervous laugh escaped Rhys. “He put even more pressure on me than you, probably. And it only got worse the more I pushed back. He became obsessed with _acquiring_ me. He actually used that word. Acquire. Not to my face. I had to learn it second hand from other staff.”

“Yikes, kiddo.”

“Yeah. He began to stalk me. I’d go to the store and he’d just _happen_ to run into me. In the kitchen, if I came in early, so would he, and if I went home late, he’d stay until I left. I debated telling my father, but—it’s hard to explain—I mean, he’d believe me, and he wouldn’t just let it keep happening, but I didn’t want it to look like he was defending me over the restaurant. The staff would hate me for it. Or…or that’s what I thought. I was inexperienced and stupid at the time.” 

A plume of smoke rose to the ceiling, Jack shifting in place but otherwise looking on raptly.

“So we have this celebration one day. For the staff, celebrating Strongfork’s getting it’s third and final Michelin star. Dad was ecstatic. Everyone was. There was a lot of after hours drinking. Even I was pretty tipsy. So, everyone goes home that night, and I promise to stay behind to clean up on my own. Dad’s all proud that I take the initiative, and he pulls me aside and talks to me a little about me taking over the restaurant someday before he leaves. I didn’t really want to hear that, of course, but it was a special night, and I yessed him to death just not to disappoint him so much. I was just beginning to think about going to The Casa then. I’d set aside a good amount of money form working at the restaurant to cover some tuition without asking for my parent’s help.” There was a quick shake of Rhys’ head. “I’m getting off track.”

A quirked eyebrow from Jack, who asked, “Got more than a few things on your chest, eh?”

“You could say that, I guess. But that night, I wasn’t even alone fifteen minutes when I hear the back door slam. I think it’s dad, of course, having left something behind. But in comes a stumbling Katagawa. And I realize he’s _very_ drunk when he doesn’t even say a word to me. He just came in and started getting handsy. And that’s when I started thinking that I might be in some trouble. There was absolutely nobody else there but me and him, and he’s not really strong enough to overpower me or anything, but he was _so_ drunk and who knows what he was capable of in that state. And, yeah, he…he tried to force himself on me. I defended myself, of course. Hit him with a cast iron pan across the head and knocked him out cold. I thought I’d killed him.”

“Fuckin’ hell, kid, that must’ve been rough.”

“Not as rough as the next day was.” Eyes glassy, Rhys’ gaze looked faraway as he finally glanced up at Jack, as if he weren’t really there at all. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell my father the truth about what had happened.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“I don’t know. I was embarrassed, I guess. And I thought it’d all been my fault somehow, for some stupid reason.” The sigh from Rhys was deep. “Instead, I told my father that if he didn’t fire and blacklist Katagawa from every single restaurant in Opportunity, that I was going to refuse to take over Strongfork’s, even though I had no intentions of taking over anyway.”

Taking a long, deep drag off his cigarette, Jack pushed away from the shelf he was leaning on. There was the shuffle of footsteps as he crossed the distance between the two of them.

“Rhys,” he began, “I can’t stop Katagawa from coming here. Wouldn’t look good for the Pony if I threw two critics out on their ass just for showing up. But I can guarantee that fuck won’t get anywhere near you, nor will he know you even work here. I can do that much. I promise.”

A broken laugh tore up from Rhys’ throat. “I suppose it’s the best I can ask for.”

“Hey, what he did was despicable. I knew he was a creep, but I didn’t think he was _that_ much of a piece of shit. You _should’ve_ killed him with that pan.”

“I think that’s going a little too far.”

“Nah, no way. There’s a special hell reserved for dickholes like Katagawa, and the sooner they get there, the better.”

That managed another laugh from Rhys, this one a little less shattered, a little less bitter. His lips sobered quickly enough, though, the thin film over his gaze beginning to melt away like snow under the sun’s glaring mass. His lips twisted in thought as he stared at Jack. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said in one breath. “It’s about last night.”

Something in Jack’s expression perked up, like the way he’d jerked back awake after his overdose, his eyes afire. There was very little room left between them as he scooted even closer.

“Yeah, what about it?” he asked, voice low. His tone, however, struggled to remain neutral, balancing on the edge of eager.

“I don’t understand what exactly happened. Why did you even proposition me?”

“Propo—jeez, kitten, are you really asking me that?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Why do you fuckin’ think?”

“Because….” With a shrug, Rhys trailed off.

Jack rolled his eyes, putting his cigarette in his mouth. His hands clamped down on Rhys’ shoulders. “I was horny, maybe? You’re pretty good looking. And, ya know, something about you makes me think you haven’t been laid in awhile. I figured you’d be D-T-F.”

“D-T-F?” Despite himself, Rhys’ arms dropped to his sides and he allowed himself a minute smile. “You’ve been hanging around Troy more than I thought, haven’t you?”

“Am I right, though? We’re you not totally freakin’ into it? 

“Maybe. Okay, yeah. Yes, I was into it. But—”

“Besides, why do you think I invited you in the first place?”

“I—what?”

“Do you really think I dragged you on a hunting trip just to feed you the local wildlife? Come on, sweetheart, I’ve already impressed you with my cooking skills. And don’t think for a moment I don’t know why you wanted to work for The Diamond Pony, of all places.”

“Erm, what are you talking about?”

“You wanted a piece of ole Handsome Jack Wolfbaine. Everybody whose ever interned here always does. They’re fuckin’ obsessed with me. You’re just one of the first I’ve seen harbor an obsession who can actually cook and cook _good_.”

“Handsome?”

“What?” Jack’s gaze narrowed, his hands tightening where they gripped Rhys. “You don’t think so?”

“N—no!” Mind scrambling, Rhys swallowed thickly, clearing his throat. “I mean, yes. You are. And I was completely into…whatever last night was. But did you actually only take me with you so you could screw me?”

“I wasn’t about to fuck Troy, now, was I? I’m like his surrogate dad or something. Fuck if I know. Not really the kinda baggage I wanna unpack, ya know?”

“Holy shit.”

“Is your mind totally blown right now, Rhysie?”

“I mean, you’re my boss, _Jack Wolfbaine_. And—and you’re getting divorced, and you have a kid, and I’ve been working my ass off in your kitchen, and you took me on a hunting trip _to screw me_.”

“Calm down there, kiddo. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is to me!”

The chuckling that came from Jack was deep, vibrating in the room. His hands dropped away from Rhys’ shoulders and he snubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray that was resting on top of a barrel. “Can’t say I’m surprised at this reaction. But I’m afraid this is all we got time for right now. _Really_ should get back upstairs before Katagawa and Aurelia decide to show up. You want to discuss where you and I are going, you come talk to me after kitchen hours.”

“Holy shit,” Rhys repeated. “Is—is that an _invitation_? Are you inviting me to come have _sex_ with you?”

“Dunno.” The chuckling became laughter, bursting forth from Jack as if he couldn’t contain himself. “You tell me later. If there is a later. All up to you.”

With that, Jack turned his back on the other man, not sparing him another glance. He walked up the steps, disappearing behind the door that led back to the kitchen, leaving Rhys reeling.


	12. Chapter 12

The moment that Katagawa and Aurelia entered The Diamond Pony, Janey rushed into the kitchen to announce it, the doors blowing back as if a tornado had come through. The atmosphere among the kitchen staff had been relatively calm up until that point, the preparations for the day going smoothly. The arrival of the critics unhinged that calm, chaos bursting from whatever had been corralling it, engulfing everybody in its wake. 

Rhys was the one taking the news the hardest. He’d stopped right in the middle of making a roux, gripping the counter as his breath refused to escape his chest. The air felt trapped in the confines of his lungs, his body smothered. Spots began to dance before his eyes, bursting and reforming, as if he were witnessing the very universe being born. Luckily for him Athena was working at his side and noticed his state of being. She roused him from it, her sharp tone cutting through the tinnitus currently plaguing his ears. 

“That roux is going to burn,” she said, reaching beyond Rhys to quickly move his pan to an unused range. “You shouldn’t have it over the flame for so long.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Rhys said, finding his voice. “I thought I was about to pass out there for a moment.”

“Don’t let the critics have that kind of power over you,” Athena offered as advice. “Focus on what you’re making. It’s the only thing that’s important right now.”

“No passing out in my kitchen,” Jack called over. “It’s not gonna get you sent home early. Everyone’s here for the long haul today. Janey, go on and take those orders from the critics. Chop chop people, we ain’t here to stand around and look pretty, though some of us are better at doing that than others.”

Everyone in the kitchen fell into a sort of rhythm, getting their bearings and throwing themselves into their work. Jack led them like a captain commanding some great vessel on the sea, barking out orders, expediting with a fiery glint in his eyes. Nobody dared considered mutiny, roasting, baking, and sauteing with the fervor any loyal crew would have. Having the most trouble was Rhys, however. He stumbled through the dance, kept misstepping, couldn’t quite shake the case of nerves he’d come down with. Again, Athena was there to steady him, keep him focused when he lost his way. She stepped in when he left his steaks to sear too long on one side, or when he didn’t immediately take his swordfish—the very dish Jack had let him put on the menu from his own repertoire—out of the oven. After awhile of fumbling, Jack came over to the younger chef’s station, spending a moment or two watching him work. At one point, he grabbed Rhys by the wrist before the other chef could reach for a pan, his grip unbreakable as he spun him around.

“Rhys.” The words seeped from between gritted teeth, sounding guttural. “Are you _trying_ to piss me off? Cos, oh boy, lemme tell ya, you’re succeeding. Katagawa and Aurelia’s orders will be coming in any minute, and if you’re not with us by the time they do, you can fuck off right out the door and not show your face back here again.”

“S-sorry, chef!” Rhys stammered, nearly squeaking the words out. “I’ll get my shit together ASAP.”

Sweating, great droplets of perspiration dripping down his face, Jack released Rhys, used the sleeve of his yellow chef’s coat to wipe his forehead. It wasn’t so hot in the kitchen that he should have been sweating so heavily, nor was he exerting himself all that much yet. Jack knew he probably should have visited the hospital after his overdose, just to let them do a full physical to see if everything was alright, but he hadn’t felt it necessary at the time. Now the fatigue was setting in. He felt his overall state of being heading south. Still, he couldn’t very well leave now. He’d have to deal with it later. Much, much later. Whenever that might be.

“Alright,” he said to Rhys in a much less harsh tone. “You make sure you do that.”

A few minutes later, Janey came barreling into the kitchen. “Critics’ tables order is up, chef,” she said. “Tickets are coming through now.” 

Sure enough, the machine that spit out the orders the waitstaff put in for the kitchen beeped. Jack snatched the papers that emerged from it, running his eyes down each slip.

“Alright, starters, we got two house salads, prawn cocktail, spanakopita, crab tapas, carpaccio, veggie tarts. First course, coq au vin, pork belly, rib-eye, swordfish. Board’s full, I need this shit twenty minutes ago, let’s go people.”

“Yes, chef!” came the collective call.

Everybody fell into their respective roles, Rhys included, though he felt more like he was submerged under water, trying to perform his tasks against the weight of it. He selected his new cut of swordfish, adding a generous amount of salt, parsley, oil, lemon juice, and garlic. Finishing it off with some red pepper for a fiery bite, he tossed it in the pre-heated oven and set his timer for fifteen minutes. Beside him, Athena was busy arranging jumbo prawns in a martini glass, spooning Jack’s own cocktail sauce recipe into the center. Once that had been set out for Janey to take to the table, she selected a square of spanakopita from the pre-made tray in the refrigerator and popped it inside a separate oven to heat. 

Luckily for Troy the carpaccio needed only to be sliced and arranged with arugula and oils. It wasn’t much different from preparing a salad, and he breezed through it, plating it with precision. Wilhelm had to handle the tarts and tapas, the puff pastry and shells previously made by his skilled baker’s hands. He filled and topped them without so much as breaking a sweat, the finished appetizers joining the collective, Janey stepping into the kitchen to whisk them away.

With the amount of work there was, it was easy for Rhys to forget who the dishes were being ferried to. He was almost enjoying himself, the pressure of getting through the orders receding to his shear enjoyment of preparing them. Zane was doing the rib-eye, and Jack had taken up the hardest dish of all, the coq au vin. So Rhys found himself firing up the pan to prepare the already reserved pork belly. He browned it to perfection on all sides, taking great care not to burn it. With growing aplomb, he was walking both the swordfish and pork up as Jack and Zane were finishing their dishes, the three of them in harmony as they awaited service to deliver them. Jack was practically beaming.

“Nice job you’re doing, Rhys,” Jack complimented him, nodding at the dishes he’d put up. “Glad to see you’ve decided to join us after all. We really need you today.”

“Stop sweet talkin’ the boyo, chef,” Zane said, chuckling. “We aren’t out of the shite quite yet.”

“Ya absolutely right, Flynt,” Jack said, shooting Rhys a wink when nobody seemed to be looking. “Get back to your station, Rhys. Day’s still long, and we haven’t even had the dinner rush yet.”

Despite the dismissal, Rhys was feeling in higher spirits, returning to his spot beside Athena in a much better state than he had been all day. He felt like he’d acquired his skills anew, that he could do anything he could conjure up. It was a false sense of confidence, of course. He was still an underling in Jack’s kitchen. But that didn’t stop his ego from being stroked and his ambitions from soaring.

Still, he knew this wasn’t the time to start trying to show off. He had to keep it grounded, at least for now. The bane of his culinary existence, Katagawa, was just outside the kitchen doors, about to sample the food he’d made. Rhys couldn’t afford to get cocky now of all times. 

Throwing themselves into the rest of their work, there was nothing left for the staff to do now but wait, see what came out of their best efforts. If Rhys fretted over it, he’d become a wreck. And there wasn’t any viable excuse for that state. Jack said he’d protect him, wouldn’t let Katagawa find out he was cooking here. But he also had to impress the critic, and Rhys had never been able to not put a signature spin on the dishes he made. Katagawa knew those nuances well, probably had them memorized, since he’d stalked Rhys for quite some time. It left him uncertain if Katagawa and his discerning palette would be able to recognize it.

He supposed he’d find out, in due time. The thought did not sit well in the pit of his stomach.

XXX

From the moment Katagawa and Aurelia walked through the doors of The Diamond Pony, the atmosphere shifted. They turned their noses up at the wait staff greeting them, were silent as they were shown a table. As soon as they’d been left alone, Katagawa glanced at Fl4k out of the corner of his eye and snorted.

“They have a bot serving tables here?” he said to his companion. “How uncouth. I’m detracting from the rating for that already.”

“Oh, come now, darling,” Aurelia remarked with a gesture of her hand. “From what I heard by word of mouth, they’re quite charming. There is nothing wrong with a little variety in your waitstaff.”

“Perhaps there is, perhaps there is not. Machines are unpredictable creations, though, hardly capable of carrying out such complicated tasks as understanding the art of waiting tables. It takes more than scribbling something down on a notepad and relaying it to the kitchen. One must be able to read a diner’s hesitation and inexperience, and make practical suggestions to enhance the experience for them.” 

“I’m sure the robot is more than capable of handling that, otherwise Jackie wouldn’t have hired them.”

“I’m not so sure that’s true, my dear. The chef has been struggling to keep this place afloat for quite some time. He might have hired the machine out of desperation.”

Interrupting their conversation, Janey brought the pair their menus, allowing them to peruse the entrees while she retrieved a bottle of vintage wine for the table. Once the wine had been poured, sloshing deep red in each of their glasses, she took the large order down and darted away.

“Too energetic for an establishment such as this,” Katagawa remarked, watching Janey disappear to automate the orders into the ticket machine. “She doesn’t match the refined atmosphere at all. It’s not very professional.”

“I think she adds a certain liveliness to the archaicness of the place. That velvet drapery is such a decade ago, and the fact they still have live entertainment— _well_ , I think those might pose more of a problem than an effervescent waitress.”

“We’ll just agree to disagree then, won’t we?”

“Quite.”

As the pair sipped their wine, the starters were brought to the table. With scrutinizing gazes, they regarded the martini glass brimming with plump, succulent prawns and the smaller plates filled with puff pastries and tarts.

“This looks like the epitome of dreadful on a plate,” Katagawa said, cutting into one of the vegetable tarts. “I doubt it’ll taste any better than its visual presentation.”

“Don’t be so judgmental, my boy. If there’s one thing The Diamond Pony has always done right, it’s been flavor.”

A piece of the tart disappeared past Katagawa’s lips. He chewed thoughtfully, washing it down. “Tastes more like a quiche than any tart I’ve had. But I suppose there’s enough similarities between the two to find that passable.”

“The prawns are quite delicious, actually. You should try them. They may be more to your liking.”

“I prefer to sample the tapas and carpaccio. Have you eaten your salad yet?”

“I was just about to. But that’s the least of my concern. Troy Calypso is a very skilled salad chef.”

The smile on Katagawa’s face was like a knife wound. “I see you still have a soft spot for that salad boy.”

“He has his charm. And quite a plethora of talent.”

“It’s _salad_ , Aurelia. You and I could probably do his job. Hardly any skills go into it at all.”

“Say what you will, darling. But there’s salad and then there’s _salad_.”

The main dishes came shortly after, Katagawa receiving the swordfish and rib-eye to sample, Aurelia having opted for the coq au vin and pork belly. They both dug into their plates with an air of haughtiness, nibbling lightly at the choice cuts balanced on their forks, swiping up the sauces from their plates with the meat. Silence save for the sounds of them dining and the occasional gulp of wine enrobed the table, the pair of them savoring every bite, extracting every bit of flavor from each. Katagawa finished evaluating the rib-eye with its pairing of julienned parsnips and garlic whipped potatoes and set upon the swordfish, frowning after taking several bites.

“What’s wrong, my boy?” Aurelia asked, noticing his expression. “You look like you’ve bitten into something downright rotten.”

“No, it isn’t that,” Katagawa responded. “This dish just tastes awfully familiar.”

“Well, I imagine it would. This is not the first time you’ve reviewed The Diamond Pony.”

“That’s not quite what I mean. I feel like I know the chef who made this quite intimately.”

The kitchen doors opened then, the quiet dining room’s attention directed to the figure that spilled forth. Jack swept out on to the dining floor, all broad grin and swagger, confidence bursting to the roof. He ignored most of the stares and starry eyes directed at him, moving instead to the table where Katagawa and Aurelia sat.

“Good evening and welcome to The Diamond Pony,” he said, voice taking on a thick saccharine tone. The smile on his face didn’t quite reach his eyes, his heterochromatic gaze mostly cold. “I hope you’re enjoying what my staff’s created for you tonight.”

“Jackie, darling, it’s so good to see you again,” Aurelia piped up, matching Jack’s mock jovial demeanor. “It’s been so long since I’ve been here last.”

“And a good evening to you as well, chef Wolfbaine,” Katagawa greeted in a much cooler tone. “The courses so far have been acceptable. I can say with honesty that we’ve found some enjoyment in them. However, the swordfish I’m eating, it’s left me intrigued. Tell me, was it you who prepared the dish?”

“The fish? Uh, nah, wasn’t me. That was—it was my new intern.”

“An intern? The Diamond Pony has an intern? This is certainly news. And just who might this intern be?”

“I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Whatever do you mean? Why can’t you tell us their name?”

“Cos I made a promise. They wish to remain anonymous, and I’m gonna keep it that way.”

“That’s absurd,” Katagawa practically spat. “Why wouldn’t a chef want their name known? That’s detrimental to their very career. I demand you stop this pretense and send them out here so I can get acquainted with them.”

“Ain’t gonna happen, Katagawa. You don’t call the shots around here. He’s staying put in the kitchen where he belongs.”

Taking a large gulp of wine, Katagawa slammed the glass down on the table, his disposition changing in the next moment. “It’s Rhys Strongfork, isn’t it?” he demanded, dropping all niceties. “It’s no secret that Xavier’s son has abandoned Strongfork’s these days. Nobody’s been able to figure out exactly where he’s been holed up since he left, but I’d recognize one of his signature dishes anywhere. How did you of all people manage to snatch him up?”

“Junior, darling, you’re going to cause a scene,” came Aurelia’s sharp tone.

Katagawa paid her no mind, staring down Jack with a smoldering gaze, made all the more unnerving by the smirk that didn’t leave his features.

“What?” Jack retorted, snorting. “Of course not. What gives you the idea that I could ever get a Strongfork to work for a dive like this?”

“I don’t appreciate your efforts to try and gaslight me. Why don’t you let me take a look in your kitchen and see for myself.”

“Because that would be a liability, and I’d rather not have a lawsuit on my hands.”

“A lame excuse for you to hide behind. You know as well as I do that that’s not the reason you won’t allow me back there.”

“Just let him peek through the window,” Aurelia piped up. “You know as well as I do that he won’t back down until you’ve given him his way.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Coming around to behind Katagawa’s chair, Jack bent down, dropping his voice several octaves until it was something dangerous and primal. “I know _exactly_ what happened between you and Rhys, what you did to him. You’re lucky I’m being civil to you at all. But don’t think for a moment that I’m going to let you anywhere near him. He works for me now, and I don’t tolerate people assaulting my staff whether they’re on the clock or not. Consider that your only warning.”

For a moment, Katagawa’s eyes widened, his mouth agape. But then he settled back, picking up his napkin and wiping daintily at his lips. “For the record,” he said, each word slow and even, “it was Rhys who assaulted _me_ , not vice versa. If anything, you should have concerns and grievances with _him_.” Turning to Aurelia, Katagawa shimmied out of his seat, careful to avoid Jack. “I think I’m finished here for today, Aurelia. If you’d like to stay, you’re welcome to it.” 

“Leaving so soon?” she asked. “Really, Junior, you have to work on lightening up. If it’s all the same, I’m going to stay here for a bit longer. I haven’t had my fill, and I’ve yet to catch a glimpse of my favorite chef.”

“The salad chef is far from an actual chef.”

Aurelia made a grandiose gesture. “He’s still a chef regardless. Don’t insult the man’s hard work.”

Wisely keeping quiet, Katagawa shook his head. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Please consider that this experience will be factored into my review.”

The last was said to Jack, who simply heaved his shoulders in a shrug. “Fine. If that’s the way you’re gonna play, then I have no choice but to accept, do I? Have a shitty rest of the day, Katagawa. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out.”

There was a sneer from the critic before he turned his back on Jack, leather bound notepad in hand. He shuffled out of the restaurant without even a backwards glance, leaving Aurelia to cut into the pork belly on her plate with an almost anticipatory glee. 

“I trust your dining experience has been adequate so far?” Jack said in his most respectful tone, turning to Aurelia. 

“Not exactly, no. And this pork belly is not nearly as crispy as I’d prefer it to be. But alas, you’ve never exactly been one to cater so much to your guests. Pity, really, as I think it brings the place down. Anyway, I simply won’t disclose an ounce more of information until the review is out. You’ll have to wait until then.”

“Oh, I’m just thrilled already.”

XXX

It was some time after restaurant hours, the last of the crew having gone home at least a half an hour ago. Alone in the kitchen, Rhys worked on scrubbing down the stove at his station, trying to channel his nervous energy into something productive. It had been awhile since he’d seen Jack, the man having made himself scarce after the critics had visited. It had been easy to lose track of the head chef after that. His presence in the kitchen had been sporadic all evening, and he disappeared completely once Rhys was stuck concentrating with the rest of the crew on the dinner rush. He knew at some point Jack had gone out to the front of the house to greet the critics, greet _Katagawa_ , and he was dying to know how that had gone down.

As he cleaned, Rhys thought he heard a noise. He stopped what he was doing, listening. For a moment there, he thought he’d heard the back door open and close. Now, there was nothing but silence. Surely he would’ve heard footsteps in the hall if someone had come in.

“Jack?” he called. 

There was no reply. Dropping his cleaning utensils, Rhys stepped out of the kitchen and entered the hall, staring down the corridor that led to the back door. The door itself was shut tight and didn’t seem to have been tampered with. Also along the hallway was Jack’s office door, which was shut tight. Rhys got the idea that maybe that’s what he had heard closing, approached it and put his ear up against the wood. He stood there for awhile, straining to hear if someone was behind it, when a loud noise startled him. Someone had slammed their hand against the door not far from his head.

“Hey, cupcake, whatcha doin?” came Jack’s voice, sounding like gunshot in the silence. 

“Jack.” Pulling away from the door, all of the air left Rhys’ lungs at once. “Shit, I’m so glad it’s you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure there’s nobody else left here.”

“I thought I heard someone go out the back door a moment ago. Or come in.”

“Well, unless the place is haunted, you must’ve heard wrong. I was in the basement.” His eyelids drooping, Jack’s burly arm came across Rhys’ shoulders, turning him back towards the kitchen. “Speaking of the basement, I’m assuming you didn’t forget our earlier conversation. That’s why you’re still here, right?”

“Er, I….” Rhys trailed off, feeling heat crawl up his face. He was sure his cheeks were glowing by the time Jack had walked him back to the kitchen.

“No need to be shy anymore. It’s just you and me here now. You can speak as freely as you want.”

“Fine, then.” Rhys swallowed, broke away from Jack so he could lean up against a counter, his arms crossing over his chest. “With Katagawa and that other critic that came here—how did that go today?”

“Is that what you’re seriously gonna ask me?” Coming to stand in front of Rhys, Jack didn’t quite invade his space yet. “Rhys, come on. It went fine. I had it under control. Now ask me something interesting.”

For a long while, Rhys stared Jack down, as if trying to discern the truth of his words. “Fine,” he eventually said. “Your wife. You’re really separated from her? This isn’t going to get messy for me somewhere down the line if we do anything tonight, right?”

Jack couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “You really had to bring that up? Yes. Of course. I ain’t that kinda scumbag.”

“Good. And you’re not just after me because I’m a Strongfork and you have some weird, creepy scheme against my family?”

“What? You get whacked in the head or something? If I had beef with the Strongforks, I’d take it up with Xavier personally. Sheesh, kiddo.”

“I just had to be sure.”

“You’re more paranoid than me. And _I’m_ the one on the drugs.”

Moving in closer, or trying to, Jack was stopped when Rhys put a hand up to stop him. “Are you on any now? Be real with me, Jack.”

“Well…uh…I _may_ have taken an edible Troy gave me before he left while I was in the basement.”

“Godammit.”

“It’s cool. I didn’t eat the whole thing. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry your pretty little ass off about nothing.” 

“I do worry, Jack. I saw you overdose, remember? And I had no idea what was going on at first. You could’ve died!”

“But I didn’t. And I’m not gonna overdose on an edible, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s not the point. The point is that you have—”

Suddenly Jack had closed the distance between them. His mouth collided with Rhys’, lips pressing hard to the other chef’s, demanding. It was on Rhys’ mind to pull away at first, to not give in to the temptation of Jack’s advances. But, despite the situation, he found himself tumbling down the rabbit hole again, responding to the head chef with a need that was primal, as if something about Jack spoke to the deepest recesses of his desires. He could blame Jack’s raw animal magnitude, or blame his own base instincts, his _admiration_ that he’d held for the man for so long. Whatever it was, it drew them together, made everything about Jack enticing to Rhys’ senses. Instead of a protest, his lips parted to let Jack’s tongue invade his mouth, felt it entangle with his own, invisible sparks flying between them.

Rhys had to pull away to catch his breath. Things were unfolding fast. He stood there panting, gaze focused on Jack, whose pupils were dilated so wide it looked like he’d just snorted several lines. It was just unbridled lust, though, Rhys was sure of that.

“This doesn’t let you off the hook,” Rhys spoke plainly, despite the discomfort growing in his pants. “But I doubt lecturing you now would do any good.”

Hands reached for the buttons of Rhys’ chef’s whites. “The only thing I wanna hear right now is the sweet sounds you’re going to make as we finish what we started last night.”

Fingers clamped around Jack’s wrist. Rhys eased them under where Jack was trying to work open his buttons, prying them away. The blush on his cheeks had crept down lower, engulfing his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.

“What’s the matter?” Jack asked, the strain in his voice evident. “Please don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

“It’s not that,” Rhys answered truthfully. “I just…want this to be sort of, er, romantic. Could we maybe take it a little slower? Kiss me some more.”

“I don’t have all night, Rhysie,” Jack said even as his mouth caught the other chef’s again. He wedged himself between Rhys’ legs, pressing his body flush to his, their arms going around each other. They stood locked like that, Jack’s mouth tasting like something fairly exotic, enticing Rhys to explore him further. The groan that escaped him was purely involuntary, dredged up from some pocket of animal lust he had buried within. Teeth came down on Rhys’ bottom lip, then, tugged until he was releasing another groan. Then Jack’s mouth was trailing along his jawline, peppering him with kisses as it worked down to his neck. He felt the moment Jack bit him in a heady mix of sharp pleasure and pain, lips sucking gently at his flesh afterward as if soothing him. 

The head chef bit him again and again, each flash of teeth more pleasurable than the last. Rhys was dazed by the barrage, his fingers tangling in Jack’s hair, messing up the perfect coif. He was lost in the moment, and they had barely gotten started.

And suddenly Jack was pulling away. “Mind the hair, will ya?” he said, sounding slightly disgruntled.

Unable to find his voice, Rhys just nodded. The other man regarded him for a long moment. Then he smirked, reaching for the closures on Rhys’ chef jacket again. This time, the other chef let him undo them, the jacket opening to reveal his bare chest emblazoned with the electric blue of tattoo ink. Jack ran his hand over the segment that covered his pectoral, Rhys sucking in a breath. His skin felt heated from the inside out, as if somewhere within him was a roaring fire that was being slowly stoked by Jack’s touch. He tried to tamp down his need, keep his reaction wavering at a manageable level. But it was Jack touching him, fingers stroking across his skin, slipping the sleeves of his chef’s jacket off his shoulders, and he couldn’t restrain himself.

“Anymore secret tattoos I’m not aware of?” the head chef asked, stopping when his fingers caressed the chrome edge of Rhys’ right shoulder. He peeled the sleeve down further, revealing the stretch of metallic limb that ended at where Rhys’ leather glove was rolled up to, at the crook of his elbow. Jack’s palm wrapped around the prosthetic, lifting it slightly to peer closer at it, but Rhys drew back, snatched it from his grip.

“Just wanted a more thorough look at it, kitten,” Jack was quick to defend. “It’s a fine piece of craftsmanship. You rarely see anything that well made.”

“I’d rather you not manhandle my prosthetic. You’ve already done that once before.”

“What if I manhandled other parts of you?” Without warning, Jack reached between them, grabbing the crotch of Rhys’ chef pants, his wide palm gathering an adequate handful of cloth and flesh. A gasp escaped Rhys, his cock giving a helpless throb in the throes of the grip, hips angling into the touch of their own accord. “Eh, Rhysie, I think you might’ve liked that.”

It was on Rhys’ tongue to say he hadn’t, that it was too much too sudden, but he’d be lying, then. The warmth of Jack’s fingers on him, their touch as solid and unyielding as stone, was unfurling things in his brain that craved so much more of such treatment. He was torn between throwing himself at Jack, begging him to keep going, and telling him that he could barely handle it.

In the end, his silence did the deciding between them. The head chef spent some time exploring his body through his clothing, working Rhys up to a fever pitch. Every so often he let out little breathless noises, Jack’s grin broadening each time. The younger chef was stiffening in his pants, the heated and silken flesh of his cock becoming decreasingly dissatisfied with the lack of direct contact. He craved more like a thirsting man crawling through the desert, was too embarrassed to voice his desires. Luckily, Jack seemed to read his body language. Mid-grope, his hand stilled on Rhys, both lips and breath gracing the other chef’s ear as he leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone.

“What do you want me to do to you, Rhysie? Anything your heart desires. Just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”

Those words made Rhys quake where he stood, were intimidating in their own right. He felt like he was standing on the edge of an endless void. One misstep and he’d tumble down into it for all eternity. Thoughts coursed through his head, as hasty and slippery as aquatic life, unable to be grasped. He settled on an answer that didn’t directly follow the question, couldn’t stop it from tumbling from his lips in time.

“Did you bring any condoms with you?”

There was a visceral growl that rumbled through Rhys’ skin. He let out a whine as Jack gripped him tighter. It was impossible to tell if he’d set fire to the powder keg that was the man’s wrath, or if he’d stoked the flames of lust higher.

Then hands were yanking off his chef’s coat altogether, blunt, thick fingers massaging into the muscles at the backs of his shoulders. He felt himself being pushed harder against the counter, a heavy weight keeping him pinned there; Jack’s body. The stiff, solid outline in the head chef’s pants was pressed up against his own groin, creating dull but satisfying friction.

“Pretty eager, aren’t ya?” Jack asked him, voice little more than a rasp. “I got ‘em, don’t you worry.”

The angle of Jack’s hips against his own had Rhys answering with a gasp. He could feel the heat fluttering deep in his pelvis, couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He knew what Jack’s after hours invitation had meant earlier, but to have it sprawled out before him, to be able to grab Jack in his actual grasp and feel the ripple of his supple muscles beneath his chef’s clothes was something else he was barely prepared for. Biting his lip, he fought against utterly losing his faculties to this potent force, had to drag himself back to the here and now.

It was hard to follow where Jack’s hands were on him. He arched and shivered as the pad of a wide thumb smoothed over his nipple, grasping, tugging, the head’s chef’s form molding to the sinuous movements of his body. Jack’s mouth came crashing down on his again, briefly, his other hand manifesting at the hem of Rhys’ pants, working open the button there. The other chef made no sound of protest, rolling with it even as he felt that hand disappear down the gap made in his pants, cupping him through his boxers. There was nothing subtle about it. The head chef’s palm was rough and demanding, wrenching out more of Rhys’ latent desires as if pulling weeds out by the roots.

“You’ll be glad to know I even did us one more favor and brought the lube,” Jack said with a leer. “You’re welcome.”

“L-lube?” Rhys repeated, feeling ridiculous in the next moment. 

“Shit, I ain’t that cruel. What did you think I was gonna do, shove one of our truffle-infused oils up your ass?”

That actually got a snort of laughter from Rhys, albeit a nervous one. A few more passes of Jack’s hand against his package, and he was being turned around. The edge of the counter dug into his groin, replacing Jack’s hand, giving him some pressure to abate his lust at least. His pants and boxer shorts were pushed down, moved past the backs of knees, pooling all the way at his ankles. Mostly naked, calloused fingers stroked his hair. The touch was ginger, almost loving.

“Lay down on your stomach for me, Rhysie. There, that’s good.”

The counter was cold where it touched Rhys’ bare chest. He tensed up from its frosty metallic bite, but not as much as he did when he felt something oozing and viscous dribble against his backside and slither between his cheeks, pooling at his entrance and slipping even further down to run against the tight skin of his balls. A wide finger prodded at him then, smearing the liquid around his hole, making him rise up on his toes at the touch. When it inched his way inside, he let out a long, resounding groan.

“You’re a responsive one, eh?” Jack teased, slipping his finger back to the entrance, plunging it in even deeper the second time. “Good. I like my partners noisy.”

It wasn’t a problem, obliging Jack’s desires. The head chef had been right about one thing when they’d talked in the basement: it had been awhile for Rhys. So long that in fact that he felt hyper sensitive, starved for touch. Every stroke of Jack’s fingers was a slice of heavenly pleasure, making whines and whimpers emerge from between Rhys’ lips of their own accord. The head chef added a second, and those sounds became stretched thin, near breathless, full on loud when Jack crooked said fingers at just the right angle. Rhys’ hands gripped the counter as if for dear life. It was all he could do to keep himself from becoming a bucking, squirming wreck.

Maybe that’s what Jack was aiming to make of him, for he thrust in a third finger, scissoring Rhys wide. It ached just a little, at the base of his spine. A few deep breaths and he was working through it. His hips raised off the counter, cock bumping the edge, the delight of even that slight touch making heat explode through him. Jack pushed him back down, snickering.

“Trust me, if we hadn’t been sweating in the kitchen all day, I’d be eating your ass instead of just fingering it,” he said. 

The dirty talk sent Rhys’ heart fluttering, his breathing reduced to pants. His hips rocked back hard against Jack’s fingers and he moaned. Much to his own surprise, the next words slipped out of him without any reservation.

“Please. Fuck me, already.”

“What was that, kitten?”

The words, albeit breathless, hadn’t been muttered. Rhys had spoken plainly, clearly. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, wondering if he’d hesitate this time, surprised when he didn’t.

“I said I can’t wait any longer. Fuck me, please, Jack.”

“Impatient much?” Jack teased, pulling his fingers from Rhys’ ass deliberately slowly. “Don’t you worry about a goddam thing. I gotcha, cupcake.”

As soon as Jack’s fingers were free, Rhys felt himself clamping down on empty air, pining for them already. The head chef was right: he _was_ impatient, every fiber of his being singing with insatiable need. Jack didn’t take off his chef’s coat. He didn’t even take off his pants. He merely popped the button and fished in his underwear until he had his fist around his cock, was extracting it. Rhys twisted around just enough to catch a glimpse of the phallus. It was magnificent. Girthy and long, with a wide domed head and thick veins running up its sides. He’d never seen anything quite like it on his partners, and his mouth might’ve gaped slightly, and there might have been a spot of drool pooling on his lips. The weight of it graced one of his ass cheeks, pre-cum smearing against his skin as Jack dug in his pocket and pulled out an object in a foil wrapper. The condom was unwrapped without ceremony. Snug in its latex sheath, Jack guided his erection to Rhys’ entrance.

Before he could even be penetrated, Rhys tensed up, let out a hiccup of a moan. He was keyed up, on edge. The first prod of the cock against his hole sent him gasping, his nerves afire. But it was in a palatable way; a way he craved like a predator lying in wait in the grass for its prey to stroll by. Jack pushed, throwing his hips into it, sending Rhys’ body squeaking across the counter. He moaned deeply, feeling the head penetrate him. The older chef took that as his cue to keep going. His hands gripped Rhys like vices. One at his shoulder, one at his hip. He rammed his body forward, spearing Rhys with more of his length, making Rhys’ spine arch like a feline stretching. 

“How’s that feel, Rhysie?” Jack asked, voice pressed tight between gritted teeth. “I betcha ya feelin’ real nice about now.”

Nodding, Rhys turned his head again, meeting the other man’s gaze over his shoulder. They stayed locked like that, Jack grinning as he rolled his pelvis, driving himself in balls deep. Rhys’ eyes fluttered closed, a pleased moan building in his chest and dancing across his tongue.

“Ohmygod,” he said in one breath.

Jack snickered. “Thought so,” he said as he pulled his hips back and snapped them forward again. 

Rhys cried out, his cock thumping against the counter again, the hard flesh spiking with a flare of discomfort before the sensation cascaded into something warm and molten. He shuddered even as Jack started up a rhythm, pumping furiously into him, holding him down against the metal. Pans rattled above them, and Rhys worried momentarily that they’d fall off the rack and hit him. That would be a hilarious series of injuries to explain.

“Ah, shit, you feel so good, cupcake,” Jack breathed out, accenting his words with a particularly sharp thrust that had Rhys crying out. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to last that long.”

At those words, Rhys clenched down tighter around Jack, making him moan as he tried to thrust against the tight confines. It resulted in Jack doubling his efforts, fingers scrabbling at Rhys’ skin, Rhys’ own fingers scrabbling at smooth metal. Rhys threw his head back, panting for breath, his cock pulsing between his legs, quicker than his heartbeat, rabbit foot thump building and building. Hard flesh came down on his ass cheek, making him keen as he was smacked.

“That’s it.” Jack was having trouble getting his words out, his tongue and teeth tangling with rapid breaths. “I want to hear you when you cum.”

Whole body undulating, Rhys pushed himself back against Jack, meeting his thrusts, chasing his orgasm. Jack’s hips were beginning to stutter, his movements erratic. He kept thrusting through it, fingers snaring in Rhys’ hair again, holding on like a man dangling on the edge of a cliff. Even as Rhys’ muscles were stiffening, even as Jack’s were as well, they moved with each other, one unit, working in unison to get the other off.

“Fuck!” Rhys finally let out, as if the word was ripped from his throat by a phantom hand. A moment later he was stilling, moaning. Untouched, his cock thrummed, spilling his seed all over the counter, painting the reflective surface white.

Not too far behind him, his gasps deep and echoing in the empty kitchen, Jack slammed against his ass a few final times. Then his muscles were quaking, his balls pulling taut to his body. He let out a bellow of a cry, his orgasm unloading into the condom. He rode it out, the pistoning of his hips not stopping until he’d been drained of every last drop.

For a long while, the two said nothing to each other, laying there panting, Jack’s mouth so close to Rhys’ ear it sounded like a miniature explosion every time he breathed out. Then, after what seemed as if eons had fallen away, that every star in the sky had probably exploded and died by now, Jack began to pull out. Still sensitive, Rhys squeezed him as he did, causing the head chef to hiss from the pressure on his now over-stimulated cock.

“Jeez, are you that insatiable or what?” 

Rhys had the decency to feel embarrassed, despite the delightful buzz still captive in his mind and body. He willed himself to ease up, let Jack remove his softening length from him. With a grunt, Jack pulled off the condom, tied it, and tossed it nonchalantly into the nearest trash receptacle. 

“Goddam, kiddo, you left a real fuckin’ mess on my counter,” Jack said, a whoop of laughter chasing the words. “That’s a bloody health code violation, though not the first time it’s ever happened. Better clean that up before we leave.”

Body still trembling, muscles stiffened in the aftermath, Rhys could barely move. Somehow he managed to peel himself off the counter, though, reach for his pants and underwear and pull them up. The head chef didn’t lend him any hand finding his chef’s coat nor the cleaning supplies, too busy tucking his own length back into his pants. Rhys tried to make short work of cleaning up, pulling a face at his own jism as if he found it offensive as he wiped it away. Soon the counter was shiny and clean once more, and Rhys sighed, stepping into Jack’s personal space. There was a canting of Jack’s head in his direction, the expression on his face questioning. Darting in, Rhys kissed him on the lips, languid in his movements. Jack kissed back, but it was without the fervor of earlier, no tongue or flashes of teeth involved. When they pulled apart, Jack moved away.

“Sorry, but if you’re looking to cuddle and all that, that’s really not my style,” the head chef announced, moving towards his office. He disappeared within only to emerge shrugging into the sleeves of a leather jacket. “Besides, I don’t have time tonight. I can drop you off at your place, but that’s about it.”

There was a wistfulness to Rhys’ gaze when he stared at the other man. “Oh. Well, okay, I guess.”

The other man snorted. “You guess?”

“I mean—thanks, Jack.”

After they cleaned up just a bit more, the ride home was uneventful. Clinging to Jack, Rhys kept his hands locked firmly in place as the motorcycle sped through the streets of Opportunity. Jack didn’t drive at all like Tim. He was far more reckless, revving the engine to heart-stopping speeds, running red lights and taking turns too sharply. Fearing he’d come flying off the vehicle, Rhys only clung harder to the solid body in front of him. He thought he heard the wild bray of Jack laughing, but it might’ve just been the wind whipping past. 

The head chef found Rhys’ address without a problem. He stopped the bike with surprising ease in front of the house, lifting his visor to eyeball the place.

“It’s my parents’ home,” Rhys said before the man could speak. “I have an apartment in the back.”

“You should really get your own place, kitten. Lots more privacy.”

“Nah, this is fine for now.”

“Suit yourself, if you like having your parents know every goddam thing that goes on in your life.” Jack heaved his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ll catch ya at the restaurant tomorrow. Don’t be dragging ass when you come in, either.” The visor was flipped back down before Rhys could answer, or even say anything more. Engine sounds tore through the night like claws through fabric. Then Jack was speeding away, leaving Rhys standing there on the sidewalk. A light came on on the front porch. It was time to beat a hasty retreat. He definitely did _not_ want to talk to his parents smelling and looking like he had just had sex. Besides, his clothing was starting to feel uncomfortable, too tight and clingy, and he couldn’t wait to take them off once he got inside.

As soon as he was in his apartment, Rhys greeted Seamus and fed him some treats, then jumped right into the shower, glad there was no knock on his door to interrupt him. Afterward, he lay in bed, trying to process what had happened that evening, failing each time. By morning it would sink in, and he would have time to mull over what he and his boss had just done. For now, though, he let his eyes drift close, awaiting sleep to finally embrace him in its dark void.


	13. Chapter 13

It was late when Jack made it back to his brownstone, his fingers fumbling on the keypad at the front entrance. How late, he couldn’t tell, nor did he really care. He was in high spirits after the night he’d had with Rhys, his sexual appetites satiated for the time being, though the same could not be said about his cravings for certain substances. There was a small stash of said substances in the drawer of the desk in his home office, tucked away with the pens and scratch pads. He was proud of himself for not having touched it for the length of time it had been there. But now, at this hour, where he didn’t yet yearn for the comfort of his bed and was bereft of something to keep him burning the midnight oil, he felt like he had no other choice than to embrace it.

The drawer was pulled open as Jack sat down at the desk. He rummaged through it until he found the small brown bag in the back. As he removed a plastic baggie from within and laid out a line of white powder on the ledger, he managed to jostle the computer mouse, waking the machine up. The screen blinked to life and he glanced at his desktop momentarily. He would of looked away in the next moment, but something caught his eye. The program that accessed the cameras he’d installed at _The Diamond Pony_ was open and minimized. He hadn’t used it before going into work, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been so careless as to leave it running. A sinking feeling began to work its way through his gut. Sometimes Tim would use Jack’s computer to work on something if it was restaurant related, and he often checked the cameras in the process. Especially if Jack had stayed behind or was otherwise having himself a late night. It was Tim’s way of keeping tabs on him, he supposed; looking out to see that his brother didn’t get himself in too much trouble. Sometimes Tim probably got an eyeful of unsavory things, and that was alright with Jack. It served him right if he wanted to play at spying on him. But if he’d looked this time, he would’ve witnessed a scene that Jack wasn’t sure that he was one hundred percent comfortable with other people knowing about yet. Even if it was his own twin.

Huffing the line from the ledger up his nose, Jack didn’t wait for the effects of the substance to kick in before leaving the room. Tim’s bedroom door was shut when he reached it, and he considered barging in uninvited. He didn’t need any unnecessary drama from Tim, though. When he knocked, there was a faint _come in_ from the other side. Jack didn’t hesitate to act on the invitation.

Timothy was sitting up in bed dressed in only his pajama bottoms, a dog-eared paperback novel in his hand. When he saw that it was Jack, he set the book aside.

“Er, hi, Jack,” he said conversationally, though there was the faintest hint of wavering to his voice. “Something the matter?”

For a long while, Jack didn’t say anything. He stood in the doorway, feeling the first stirrings of the substance in his system take root and creep into his thoughts. It was difficult to restrain himself. A feeling bubbled up in his chest, cold and relentless. The floorboards creaked as he stepped further into the room, his footsteps careful and controlled.

“Not for nothing, but you’re starting to freak me out,” Tim said. He swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

“You used my computer earlier?”

“What?” The perplexion that crossed Timothy’s face seemed genuine. “Oh, right, yeah. I wanted to check this week’s schedule. I was only on it for a few minutes.”

“Is that true?”

“No, Jack, I surfed a bunch of porn for a few hours.” With a roll of his eyes, Timothy let out an exasperated sigh. “Come on. I know better than to go through your stuff by now.”

“That’s not really my concern, Timmy. Someone accessed the surveillance cameras at the restaurant. Since I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who was here all night, it could only have been you.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

When Jack spoke again, it was in the tone of a man who’d been tasked with having to wrangle and butcher live fish, their scaly bodies writhing and evading his grip. “Do I look like an asshole to you? You should probably tell me the truth before I _really_ lose my temper.”

As if all the air had been siphoned from his body, Tim’s posture slumped. His gaze dropped away from Jack, darting everywhere in the room except for the other man. “Alright. Fine. I checked on the cameras. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or anything. I don’t know. Is that really so bad?”

“And what did you see, Tim?”

Without answering, Tim’s fingers dug into the meat at the back of his own neck, scratching with nervous energy.

“I asked you what you saw,” Jack said again, his voice dipping low, steeped in menace.

Tim’s jaw worked, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words to come unstuck from his throat. He seemed to be scrambling for an answer, wanting to appease his brother before things spiraled out of hand.

“I’m not going to ask you again. You either tell me what you saw, or—”

“I saw what happened. Or part of it. Between you and…and Rhys.”

Jack’s fists, which had been resting at his sides, suddenly clenched. He took a deep breath and held it, his temper flaring up like the crest of a tidal wave, threatening to come crashing down over the room. Each movement stiff, he crossed over to a dresser, picking up a photo frame that stood on top of it. It was a picture of him and Timothy outside the restaurant when it had first opened, smiling and standing shoulder to shoulder. In front of them, grinning with her teeth bared, was a young Angel. All three of them looked so happy; happy enough that something bittersweet pierced through the veil of Jack’s anger, if only for a moment. He resisted flinging the picture at his brother’s head, wanting to preserve the memory, and set it back down with a ginger touch. 

When he turned back to face Tim, it wasn’t quite with a clear head, but some of the edge had been taken off.

“You watched us?” he accused. 

“Ye—I mean, no. I closed out of it when I realized where things were going. But at the beginning…I mean, it didn’t look—well, I just thought you were coercing Rhys or something. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t being a dick to him.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You think I’d….” Not wanting to finish the sentence, Jack shook his head, throwing up his hands, as if he couldn't contain the energy in them. “Rhys knew exactly why he was there. It was _consensual_. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The laugh that emerged from Tim’s throat was curt and dry. “You’ve done some fucked up things when you were high, Jack. I wouldn’t think Rhys would even be interested in you with what you put him through.”

“Of course the kid was interested. I’m like his idol and shit, or haven’t you’ve been paying attention to the way he looks at me or to the things he’s said? Besides, I wasn’t even freakin’ high. Rhys wouldn’t have gone for that shit.”

“I figured. He seems like a smart kid.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Shut up, Tim.”

“No, I don’t think I will. There’s still the matter of him being your goddam intern, Jack.”

“Which isn’t really any of your business.”

“Suit yourself.” Throwing back the covers on his bed, Tim snatched his book from where he’d set it down, ready to return to whatever world lie within its pages. “I’m just trying to help you and the restaurant out. Someone’s gotta be the voice of reason around here.”

Crossing the distance between them, Jack swatted at his brother, knocking the book from his grasp. “Yeah, and that voice ain’t you.”

“It’s certainly not you, either.” His movements stiff with annoyance, Tim retrieved his book from where it had fallen to the floor, dusting off the weathered cover. He peered down at it for some time, as if it held arcane secrets. “Not when you seem so hellbent on following this path of self destruction you’ve been on since god knows when.”

“Still don’t see how any of this is your business.”

“Your my _brother_.” When Tim lifted his gaze to meet Jack’s, the look in his eyes was as razored as honed daggers. “I don’t really give a shit what you think about me. Or how shitty you treat me. You’re still my blood.”

Jack inclined his head. He sniffed, swiping at his nose. “You’re such an asshole, Tim. Totally pathetic. No wonder you’re still stuck living with me.”

“Yeah, maybe I am.” When Tim laughed again, it was bitter, humorless. “Maybe you’re absolutely fucking right about everything you say about me. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m not going to sit back and let you continue on this downward spiral.” There was a pause. Timothy seemed to be considering something. Then, after a moment, he shook his head. “You say you wouldn’t do the same for me. You’ve lamented about how much you’ve thought of cutting me loose. But I know you won’t.”

The shadows seemed to play across Jack’s face in menacing patterns. His brow wrinkled, his lip curling back to show a hint of teeth. In that moment, he looked as wild as a skag defending its burrow. 

“I know that you can’t,” Tim went on. “You would’ve already done it by now. And that gives me a shred of hope for you.”

The wild look was still painted across Jack’s features. It was a nervous tic that seemed to quiver through his muscles like a race horse waiting for the starting bell. After some time, the knife wound of his mouth became a smile, and he let out a snort.

“You always did throw your faith in with the outlier, didn’t you?” Jack’s voice was quiet. As swift as the rage had taken him up in its embrace, it was releasing him. “Too bad it never gotten you far. You should’ve learned by now.”

Timothy shrugged. “I guess I’m just an idealistic fool, then.”

“ _Heh_ , that you are, Timmy. One of us gotta be, eh?” Silence filled the space between them. When it lingered too long, Jack fidgeted, made uncomfortable by it. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut about what you saw between me and Rhys tonight. I don’t need my staff knowing about who the hell I fuck on the downlow. They find out, there’s gonna be some major problems.”

“For me or you?”

“Both of us. And Rhys. The kid’s a good worker and an even better chef. I need him to stick around. For the restaurant’s sake. You know what kind of vultures my staff are sometimes. They catch wind he fucked me, they’re gonna think he just did it to get a leg up. They’ll run him out.” 

“Funny how this is a problem that seems it could’ve been resolved by you, oh, _not_ sleeping with your intern.”

“Eh, it was a momentary lapse in judgment.”

“Momentary? More like on the rebound and needing to validate your self worth, if I were to take an educated guess.” Sounding much like his brother in those moments, Tim sighed. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to find out about your stupid tryst, Jack. Who the hell would I even tell anyway?”

“Wilhelm.”

“Because I like him? That doesn’t mean I go airing all the family’s dirty laundry to him. I have more sense than that.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Turning his back on his brother, Jack’s anger had entirely dissipated by now. He was left feeling empty and hollow, needing a cigarette, or a drink, or maybe even more of the fine powder to snort up his nose. His plan was to seek one of the three out and indulge for the rest of the night, to hell with worrying of what the morning would bring if he did. His hand was on the door handle when he stopped. “I’ll, uh…I’ll see you in the morning, Tim.”

From his place on the bed, Tim blinked owlishly, completely taken off guard by the change in Jack’s tone. He recovered quickly, rolling with his brother’s moods. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go get us some bagels or something for breakfast when I wake up.”

“Is that your peace offering?”

“I’m not exactly the one that has to make peace, Jack.”

“If that’s what you want to believe….” Jack didn’t finish the sentence. He slipped out of the bedroom door without a backwards glance, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in the hall.

When he was gone, Tim scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to sooth his frayed muscles. He could feel the frustrated scream roosting in his chest, wanting desperately to crawl up his throat. Somehow he managed to keep his composure, though the walls keeping him corralled were weak, and he felt they could tumble down at any moment. 

“How the fuck do I deal with this mess?” he found himself muttering aloud.

The empty room didn’t answer him. He found himself retreating under his covers, book abandoned. The encounter with his brother had left him mentally exhausted, as arguments with Jack often did. 

All he wanted to do now was sleep.

XXX

When Rhys arrived at _The Diamond Pony_ the next day, he was so tangled up in his thoughts that he nearly got bowled over by Troy on his way to punch the timeclock. The salad chef—who was actually early for work—glowered, using his thumb print to clock himself in before turning on Rhys.

“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you look where you’re going?”

“Oh, ah, sorry,” Rhys said without thinking much about it. “I didn’t see you there.”

“You gotta be fucking senile for that shit.” The wave Troy gave him was dismissive in nature. “Whatever. Just stay out of my way. It’s bad enough I’m stuck working with you today of all days.”

It was on Rhys’ tongue to say something snide in return. Troy’s barely concealed contempt for him was beginning to get old, and Rhys thought him and the salad chef had been making progress. Especially after Tyreen had promised Rhys to get her brother to lay off of him in exchange for use of his culinary skills to impress Amara. But the words died on his tongue. It seemed that maybe Troy was just in a bad mood, and in all honesty, Rhys didn’t feel all that hot himself. He wasn’t at all sure _what_ he was feeling, but at the heart of it was…confliction.

“Hey, Troy,” Rhys called before the other man could disappear into the kitchen proper. To his surprise, the salad chef stopped and half-turned, scowling but also watching him with expectation. Knowing he had only a few moments to make a decision, Rhys swallowed his pride. “You don’t seem, uh, yourself today. Maybe I—maybe, if you want, we can go get a drink after work somewhere.”

Troy narrowed his eyes, but didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. The look on his face was of someone mulling something thoroughly over, poking at all the cracks to see if the foundations were sound. If anyone asked, Rhys couldn’t have told them what gave him the wild idea to extend an invitation to the salad chef. Perhaps it was because they were the closest in age among the kitchen workers, and Rhys was beginning to feel the first stirrings of needing _someone_ to confide in about his restaurant antics who might understand. Perhaps he just wanted to be in good standing with _all_ of the kitchen staff. Or maybe it was just his night spent with Jack having split his psyche wide open, making him feel vulnerable, in need of some grounding. And what better way to center oneself than to spend it in the company of someone who wasn’t particularly fond of you?

“I’ll think about it,” Troy muttered as he turned away, which wasn’t exactly a ‘no’. “But only if my sis can come along and you buy the first round.”

“I can manage that.”

The rest of the kitchen staff trickled in for the day, Athena and Wilhelm taking up places at their stations, Rhys noticing that Zane was missing as time went on. The realization that Zane’s absence could only mean he’d be training under Jack today as sous chef hit him like a whole ham hock to the head. Jack, who he hadn’t seen yet, who was probably lurking here somewhere, likely in his office or the basement. He’d _seen_ Tim. He remembered that because the man had been out in the dining room cleaning when he’d walked in, and had given him a look that made Rhys feel like he was being scrutinized. He had to wonder, did Tim somehow know about what had happened between him and Jack? Surely Jack wouldn’t have mentioned that in casual conversation.

Rhys didn’t get long to ponder it. The office door opened, and from its depths emerged Jack, looking haggard, the bags under his eyes weighing them down. The night before, he’d looked healthier, less harrowed. Rhys wondered what had happened overnight for such a drastic contrast to have taken root, though it didn’t stop his cheeks from flushing the shade of a tropical sunset. He couldn’t quite meet the head chef’s gaze, either, when the man walked over to join him. It was difficult for Rhys, imagining what his behavior looked like to the others. He hoped none of them really took much notice, lest it raise any suspicions. A glance in Athena’s direction revealed to him that no, she wasn’t paying him any particular amount of attention. Either was Wilhelm. Troy wasn’t either, but he was chopping at something on his cutting board with so much force that it echoed throughout the kitchen, the movements of his flesh arm murderous.

Troy’s actions caught Jack’s attention. He rubbed at his forehead with his fingers, as if trying to erase the furrows there. “For fuck’s sake, Troy, what the hell are you doing to those veggies?”

“I’m fucking doing my job, okay?” Troy snapped without looking in his boss’ direction. The knife came down again, the staff wincing as it missed its mark, slipping and meeting the metal countertop. “What does it look like?”

For a long while, Jack stared at Troy’s back, as if trying to fathom what madness he was witnessing. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m working.” This time Troy’s voice took on a bit of a snarl at the end, the man clearly feeling justified in his tone. He dropped the knife, leaning on the counter, the tension in his spine obvious even from a distance. “I didn’t think you were deaf, chef.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t want to walk any further over that line,” Jack warned. His voice held no menace, despite his words. It made them seem hollow. “I’m warning you.”

“Or what? You’ll toss me and my sister out on our asses?” Troy shook his head, his fringe of hair swaying. “I don’t think so.”

When Jack placed his hand on Rhys’ arm, the young chef couldn’t help but feel a certain reminiscent thrill at the contact. He didn’t get long to revel in it. Jack was telling him something.

“Rhys, I’m gonna give you my planner.” Set down on the counter by Jack was a leatherbound notebook, its cover cracked and creased with age. “You go on and get the lunch prep for today started with the crew. You can handle that on your own, right? I think I need to go have a little chit chat with my brother about some things.”

He found himself nodding, Rhys, though he was also steeped in puzzlement. He didn’t know what Jack was talking about, or if it had anything to do with their little private meeting the previous night. But there was a niggling at the back of his mind that wouldn’t quite leave him alone, and he found himself almost plunged into paranoia over the fact that even one person might know. He wasn’t ready to face that, was still processing that anything had happened at all. Looking over at Troy didn’t help the matter. Though he was pretty sure the salad chef was clueless about him and Jack, he was still in the foulest mood Rhys had ever seen him in, and he was now Rhys’ responsibility. Rhys was cocky in his own talents as a cook, but uncertainty plagued him when it came to leadership in the kitchen.

“Great,” Jack way saying as he pulled away. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Then Jack was at the kitchen door, shouting for Tim to come join him in his office. Though he couldn’t be entirely sure, Rhys thought Tim shot him a furtive glance as he crossed the kitchen with his brother. If it had happened, it was brief, and that made Rhys even more uneasy. He sucked in a breath, trying to ground himself. There was no rational reason he should even be too concerned with the situation, other than the dents it could make in his ambitions. Which was a nuisance, sure, but easy enough to shrug off over time. Besides, he was most certain Jack wasn’t one to run his mouth off to just anyone. Chances were if his brother knew about anything, he was working on nipping it in the bud.

The planner was opened, Rhys careful not to knock out any loose or old pages in the process. Ignoring the squiggles of notes and glowing lines of highlighted words, he navigated to the current date’s menu. Jack had the chicken scratch writing of a doctor, but Rhys could still make out what was written. He caught the words _osso buco_ and _venison_ , recognizing the classical rustic overtones of the dishes present. Good. He’d been raised on preparing classical cuisine, and though Strongfork’s restaurant had transformed with the times and found modernity these days, he could cook those types of dishes without much thought.

The cooking was the easy part. The difficult part, well, that was getting the kitchen prepared and coordinated. He glanced around at the staff, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. Both Athena and Wilhelm were looking at him, expecting him to guide them. Thankfully Troy was preoccupied, not paying attention at all.

Somehow Rhys found his momentum and fell into the role Jack had given him. “So, er…Athena. I’m going to need a blackberry sauce from you. I think I saw a recipe in here somewhere.” 

Rhys flipped through the pages of the planner. Athena interrupted him before he could waste much time. “I know it already. We’re doing the venison then tonight?”

“Yup. Wilhelm, could you handle the polenta? Also espresso cheesecake for dessert. I’m going to take it you know what you’re doing with that as well.”

“Sure.”

That’s all Wilhelm seemed to have to say. Which left an awkward silence lingering after. Trying to shake off his discomfort, Rhys turned back to the planner.

“Lunch is just….” Scanning the pages, Rhys found what Jack had jotted down. “Cobb salad, ribeye sandwich, and salmon with mango in champagne sauce. I’m assuming all the ingredients for those came in this morning and we’re good to go. There’s clam chowder for the soup. I’ll make the base for that. Athena and Troy, you’re on vegetable chopping duty. You going to be okay with those marching orders, Troy?”

There was no immediate reply. After a few seconds, Rhys was about to give up on the salad chef answering him. Which made his job all the harder. He didn’t want to argue with Troy over not listening to him or doing his job, but he knew if he didn’t get on the man’s case, then Jack wouldn’t be very pleased with his performance. Just when he was squaring his shoulders and psyching himself up to approach the salad station, Troy turned around.

“Just hand over what you want me to cut,” he said, sounding like he didn’t have the energy to be snarky about it. “I’ll do it.”

Rhys didn’t press the issue. Having Troy cooperate was enough of a blessing for him. He gathered what he needed from the walk-in, splitting the haul between Athena and Troy. Soon the room was filled with the sounds of chopping and mixing, Rhys gathering the clams, butter, and flour. Once the vegetables were delivered to him chopped with fine precision, he mixed them in a skillet with the juice from the clams, letting it heat. In a pot, he made his roux from the butter and flour, adding cream until it thickened. Then he combined it with the vegetables, heating it to just under boiling. Just as he was adding the clams to the mix to finish off the chowder, Troy approached him.

“Look, I was kinda shitty to Jack before,” Troy told him, sounding out of his element. Stirring the chowder, Rhys wondered what the hell that had to do with what was happening in the kitchen, but decided to stay quiet and let the man speak. “I’m just—I got some bad news recently, okay?”

“Okay,” Rhys said on a rising note, as if he wanted to say more. Considering it seemed like Troy was struggling to get his words out, he kept his mouth shut. 

“Don’t be a dick, Rhys.”

“I’m not. Honest. I just don’t see what you want me to do about it.”

“I don’t want to get into it right now. The whole back story and shit, I mean. But I think I should go try and make peace.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Jack is, well, he’s Jack.”

But Troy was shaking his head. “You don’t know him like I do, man.” And at that, Rhys had to fight to keep his expression neutral. Ironic laughter bubbled up in his chest, threatening to burst forth. Thankfully Troy was speaking again. “I should go try and clear the air with him.”

“If you think it would help that much, then my opinion doesn’t really matter.” A spoon was taken up in Rhys’ hand and dipped into the chowder. He slurped a mouthful of it down, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to test the flavor. 

“So I can go talk to him, then?”

“Sure. Make it quick, though. I want you ready for lunch service with everyone else. And if he gets pissed, then I had nothing to do with you being anywhere near him.” 

“Yeah, I’ll consider that.”

It was hard to tell if Troy was joking or not. There was no smirk etched across his features, and his tone was a deadpan. Rhys watched him disappear down the hall leading to Jack’s office with the slightest hint of trepidation. He supposed it was just lingering anxiety. Jack had known Troy for awhile before he’d met Rhys. The two got along, as far as Rhys had seen. Or at least Jack didn’t seem to take out his frustrations on the salad chef as much as he did the others at times. There was probably nothing to worry about.

Nothing but the threat of certain facts coming to light.

Rhys wanted to laugh at himself. He was being irrational now. Jack wouldn’t breathe a word of what had gone on between him and Rhys. Not even to Troy. He was a lot of things, but someone who confided in others wasn’t likely.

He settled back into stirring the pot of clam chowder. The kitchen was silent save for the subtle noises of food being prepared. Glad for it, Rhys allowed himself to relax a bit, wisely straying away from thinking about the night before. It was just him and the rest of the kitchen staff, preparing for lunch, making _The Diamond Pony_ shine like its namesake. After all, it really needed that touch.

Down the hall, Troy approached Jack’s office door. He could hear muffled voices coming from the other side, one of them raised, their words pointed. It was likely Jack, if Troy was going by experience. Forgetting to knock, he tried the door handle. He was surprised when it wasn’t locked, the door swinging slightly ajar. Even as he pushed it wider and stepped over the threshold, nobody seemed to notice him. Jack was too busy poking Tim in the chest, his expression frozen in a snarl. Tim was trying to shove him back. He seemed more distressed than he normally did when he fought with his brother.

“How could you fuckin’ do this to me?” Jack demanded of his brother, spittle flying. He wasn’t shouting, which somehow made the scene more disturbing. “You swore you weren’t gonna tell nobody. And now you fuckin’ went back on your word. You think I’m a fool, Tim? You think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“What are you even talking about?” Tim sounded stretched thin, distressed to the point of snapping. Troy couldn’t remember ever hearing the busboy sound so distraught when dealing with Jack. “I didn’t say shit! Why would I? Be sensible, Jack. I have no reason to go behind your back and run my mouth off. Especially not about _that_.”

“But you did. Admit it, already. You told Troy, of all the people to tell! Why else would he be giving me such a hard time? He’d never pull that shit with me otherwise.”

From his place by the door, Troy blinked, unable to find the desire to interrupt. This was something he needed to hear. His gut told him so.

Tim threw his hands up in exasperation. “I dunno! Maybe something happened with the kitchen staff. Why didn’t you ask him? Instead you…you just blame me!”

“I don’t need to ask him shit. He’s knows about last night, I goddam know it. He knows all about what happened with Rhys. And he has all this dirt on me now, and—and you, Tim. You’re the only other person that could’ve said anything to him besides myself. So, just be honest. Tell me what you told him. I just want to hear you spell it out so I know what I need to do.”

“Maybe if you weren’t putting all that chemical shit in your body all the time, you wouldn’t be so fucking paranoid, Jack.”

“I’m not paranoid!” 

As Jack moved to manhandle his brother, he stopped. It seemed he’d finally noticed Troy standing there, as he turned in his direction like a predator honing in on prey. His jaw worked, slackening, words dying on his tongue. 

Troy was staring, muscles stiff, as if bracing for a fight. He remained silent as well, until the silence stretched on for too long. “What exactly is Tim supposed to have told me?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious when he said it. But there was also a weight to his words, as if they took him effort to speak. “And what does it have to do with Rhys?”

Mouth snapping shut, Jack shook his head. Edging around his desk, he fell into his chair, leaning it back. There was a glassiness to his gaze, as if he’d mentally shut down. “What are you doing in here, Troy?”

“Coming to apologize to you about my fucked up attitude. But apparently I just walked into the shit.”

“Apparently,” Jack agreed. “You should probably turn around and walk right back out of it, if you know what’s good for you. Just saying.”

“And that’s it? You’re not even going to give me an explanation, man?”

Tilting his head, Jack leveled his gaze with Troy’s. His expression was deadly serious. “You’re not supposed to be in my office. _Nobody’s_ supposed to be in here without my invitation, and I sure as hell didn’t invite you. So whatever you overheard when you decided to invade my privacy wasn’t meant for your ears. I owe you nothing.”

Several emotions crossed Troy’s face nearly all at once. They seemed to war with each other, his flesh fist clenching at his side. At last he settled on anger, letting it well up in him proper. “Fine,” he said with a fair amount of grit. “Don’t tell me anything, then. When whatever shit hits the fan this time, just know I ain’t gonna have your back.”

“I think I’ll manage without you just fine. Nothing’s going to come of this anyway. Ain’t that right, Tim?”

Tim shot Jack a glare, but didn’t reply.

“Ah, what do you know?” Jack asked him. “Anyway, I want the two of you out of here. Like, five minutes ago. I got shit to do before I go back into the kitchen, and I don’t need either of you distracting me.”

The least reluctant of the pair, Tim, looked relieved to be dismissed. He crossed the room, squeezing past Troy, who stepped aside to let him leave. Tim didn’t even look back before he crossed the threshold and disappeared down the hall. Troy, however, was still glaring at Jack. There was also a wounded edge to his features, as if Jack had dealt him physical blows. Finally his body relaxed, his form slouching, his head shaking even as he was turning away.

“Whatever, bossman,” he muttered, his voice barely carrying across the room. “Do whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care anymore.”

On his way back to his station, Troy had to pass Rhys, who was standing with Athena, speaking low to her about something. With his head bowed and his body hunched over, it took Troy effort to look up at the pair. Rhys looked back at him expectantly. 

“About that drink after work,” Troy began, trying to keep his tone neutral. “I’ll take you up on the offer, if you’re still down for it.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Rhys said, breaking out in a smile. 

“Cool. Tyreen’s still coming along. And we get to pick the place.”

“Fair. You two probably know your way around the city better than I do.”

“Sure do.” As he spoke, Troy’s spirits were gradually lifting. He even managed a half-smirk, pouring his natural charm on. “You’re guaranteed to get your party on when you travel in our circles.”

“That might be a little too much for me to handle, but we’ll see. In the meantime, think you can get working on prepping for the Cobb salads for me? I’d appreciate it.”

With a flourish of his flesh hand, Troy saluted him. “I’m on it like a circus geek with a chicken head, chef.”

“I have no idea what the means, but I’m going to assume it’s very energetic.”

“Close enough.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Drug use**  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile. I ended up losing the original outline for this chapter, and having to wing-it from memory. Such, please excuse any inconsistencies. Hopefully I caught them all in edits. Also, I suppose this chapter is an interlude of sorts, as it marks about the halfway point for this story and addresses some backstory plot points.

The outside of the club was nothing more than a red metal door set into an unassuming concrete building. Above said door was a neon sign with the word _Corrosion_ in radiant green block lettering. The sign’s first ‘O’ wasn’t an ‘O’ at all, but a biohazard symbol instead. Rhys stood on the sidewalk before it, staring at both sign and door, and then the small cluster of people hanging around outside apparently waiting to get in. If he were being honest with himself, the place’s stripped down look was making him nervous. That, and the bouncer was a buff man, built like a Dahl porta-potty. A few feet ahead of Rhys, Troy and Tyreen strutted side by side like a pair of skags hunting the wastes, unimpressed with the bouncer blocking their path. It turned out they had every right to be so apathetic about the man’s presence. He stepped aside at their approach, eyeing them but not saying anything, and silently pulled the door open. At the threshold, Troy stopped and turned around to shoot a glance at Rhys.

“You coming in?” he asked, gesturing with his prosthetic in the direction of the club’s interior. “We ain’t gonna wait for you forever, you know.”

“I mean, Chef Killjoy, you could technically stand out here and wait for Amara to show,” Tyreen joined in. “If you’re as uncomfortable as you look. She’s supposed to be meeting us. But I don’t see why you’d want to.”

“Chef Killjoy?” Rhys asked, walking the few steps it took to close the distance between them, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “I thought we were on good terms here.”

“We are,” Tyreen answered, moving past the open door into the long, shadowed hallway beyond. “At least I am. My brother, maybe not so much.”

Troy, who was following closely behind Tyreen, gave a curt laugh. “We’re cool. Least right now we are.”

“That’s reassuring,” Rhys said, making the last word sound hollow. 

The hall was as plain as the exterior of the club, not giving much of an impression of what lay beyond it. Through the red painted walls, which reminded him of rust or maybe dried blood even more so, he could hear the jarring thump of a techno industrial beat. Which didn’t tell him much about the club itself, only that it catered probably toward a Raver or Rivethead crowd. Not exactly his scene, nor was he dressed for a place of that kind, but he could roll with it. 

Apparently the Calypso twins were minor celebrities here, anyway, so it didn’t seem to matter if he looked the part or not. They walked past the bar, Tyreen blowing a kiss and winking at the bartender. The woman who was slinging drinks that night was covered in tattoos that ran down her arms and across her collarbone. There were some on her neck as well, varying from someone’s crossed out name in script with another beneath it to a space scene done in brilliant color. When she looked up, her cheeks turned as pink as the color of her dyed hair. She gave a small wave in Tyreen’s direction, ducking her head as if shy. Rhys guessed Tyreen just had that effect on people.

When they came to an area of the club sectioned off from the rest of the room with velvet rope, Rhys had to conceal the surprise and skepticism on his face. For one, Corrosion didn’t seem like it was the kind of place that had a VIP area. The club appeared to pride itself on looking run down, from the dance floor that was just a hodgepodge of wooden boards pasted down on cement, to the bar they’d just walked by, which was constructed of scrap welded together with a piece of agate placed over it to serve as the bartop. The walls were decorated with posters for different bands, skulls of various Pandoran wildlife, and different pieces of technological scrap. The place seemed to love scrap as decor for some reason Rhys couldn’t fathom.

And secondly, who exactly were the Calypsos that the attendant was pulling back the rope for them? A sign on the wall read **Radiation Pit** , and there was a private bar at the far end of the room that was currently manned by a shirtless guy with a mohawk. A few people sat on couches or plush chairs here and there. A small group sitting close to the entrance waved at the twins. 

Troy must have noticed the look on Rhys’ face, because his grin was shark-like when he turned back to him. 

“Jack’s not the only celebrity in the _Diamond Pony_ ’s kitchen,” he remarked.

“When you gonna drop that next mix?” one of the strangers called to him. “That last one was fire.”

“Gotta have some patience,” Troy told the guy. “Mixes don’t pay the bills. I’m still working that day job.”

“They would if you’d monetize them already,” Tyreen said, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t go bringing that up again. I haven’t honed my sound to where I want it yet.”

The twins took a seat on one of the couches, perched side by side, both looking expectantly at Rhys. Rhys could tell the group near the entrance was staring at him in his long-sleeved V neck shirt, chef’s slacks, and peacoat. He was the pariah here, in a club full of misfits and possibly miscreants. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea….

“You gonna sit or what, Chef Killjoy?” Troy said.

“Will you two stop calling me that.” 

Rhys shook his head and pulled out one of the wingback chairs across a low table from the twins. He fell into it, hunching down against the cushion. Mere seconds later, a waitress was approaching them, asking them what they wanted to drink. The twins ordered something called a _Burst Shot Special_. When she turned to Rhys, he shrugged.

“Sparkling water?” he asked, a nervous laugh escaping him.

“Really?” Tyreen said, giving him an incredulous look.

At the same time, Troy butted in with, “No way. This ain’t gonna be like last time with the rest of the gang. You’re getting your drink on with us. Bring him a _Quick Fuck_. And, fuck it, three Rakk Ales. For the table,” he added at Rhys’ gawking. “Put it all on our tab.”

“I don’t really like to drink much,” Rhys said as the waitress walked away. 

“If you wanna roll with us, you’re gonna have to learn,” Troy said, laughing. He reached into one of his pants pockets with his flesh arm, pulling out a plastic baggie and slapping it down on the table. “But if drinking’s not exactly your thing, there’s other ways to party.”

Rhys’ gaze was on the baggie, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “What exactly is that?”

“Just something to take the edge off. Consider it a gift.”

“Uh, why would you be giving me gifts? Not like we’re on good terms or anything. And isn’t stuff like that expensive?”

“I can afford it. Jack is a lot of things, sure. But he’s not cheap as far as kitchen salaries go.”

“Right. It doesn’t explain why you’d be handing this stuff off to me without me paying for—wait. Wait a minute, I know what this is. I think?”

“So, what is it, chef?” Troy said. He was smirking now. Even Tyreen was chuckling at the exchange while she checked the ECHOwatch strapped to her wrist.

“You’re a pusher. I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s called? And…and you’re trying to get me to take that so I get hooked and you make a profit. I know about how this works.”

“Out of all that, you’re only right about one thing. Sure, I might be a pusher, dealer, whatever you want to call it in that naive bubble of yours. But, like I said, this is a gift.”

“For what?” 

“For a budding friendship, what else? You’re the one that asked me here. Someone extends an invitation, you repay them somehow.”

“I’m…I don’t follow that logic. But it seemed like you were having a shitty day.”

“I was. Getting better by the moment, though.” 

The drinks came, the waitress setting them down on the table, Troy slipping a generous tip on to her serving tray. The _Burst Shot Specials_ weren’t a misnomer. Each fiery orange and red drink came with a shotglass filled with some dark liquid. Rhys watched as the twins poured the shot contents into their drinks, the liquid oozing in oily droplets like no alcohol he’d ever seen. 

“And I have a feeling tonight’s gonna be kick ass,” Troy added.

“Uh huh.” Rhys’ voice was dry. “What the hell is that stuff you’re drinking?”

Troy shrugged. Tyreen said, “Probably slag. Who knows and who cares as long as it gets you fucked up,” before taking a tentative sip.

In his seat, Rhys was quiet for a long time. He stared down at his drink, the triple layers perfectly balanced within the glass. It was fascinating to look at, if not anything else. He picked it up in his cybernetic, lifting it to take a whiff.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” he muttered, and upended the shot. It went down smooth, the taste of coffee and melon liquor blending into something that was fairly interesting from a chef’s perspective. His breath hissing through his teeth, he said louder, “I probably shouldn’t even trust you at this point, but I’m going to ask anyway.” His shot glass was put down so he could gesture to the baggie. “What’s _really_ in the bag?”

“You eat it,” Troy told him, drinking deeply from his glass. “If you want the deets, it’s a fungus that grows in, like, spiderant nests.”

“And it does…what?”

Troy rolled his eyes, huffing. “What do you think, chef? You trip your fucking balls off.”

“Why on Pandora would you think I’d ever want to try something like that?”

“Dunno. Maybe cos I think you have a massive stick up your ass? Could do you some good to try alternative relaxation methods.”

Again, Rhys spent a while in quiet contemplation. He fidgeted in his seat, shifting positions a few times. Troy laid back against the couch cushions, sinking down low on them. Tyreen continued to fiddle with her watch. Rhys felt like he could hear the seconds going by on an imaginary clock.  
The truth was, Troy had somewhat of a point, and that bothered him, the salad chef getting to his head. Ever since the night before with Jack, Rhys had felt on edge, as if waiting for someone to jump out and accuse him of trying to get a leg up at work by sleeping with the boss. He imagined everyone on the restaurant staff finding out, never looking at him with an ounce of respect again. And he imagined the disappointment his parents would feel when he told them he was resigning from the cooking industry forever, his name smeared like pate on flatbread. His father would probably find out what had driven him away eventually when word circled back to him. Rhys would never be able to look the man in the face again.

So when he reached for the baggie, intending to remove its contents, he couldn’t even blame himself. Well, he could blame himself in general, sure. He’d consented to Jack's invitation, after all. It was his own fault he was in this mess. A hand on his cybernetics stopped his thoughts and his hand in their tracks, and he dropped the bag back to the table. Troy had leaned forward and grabbed him, and was in the process of pushing up his sleeve.

“This arm of yours is pretty slick,” he said. “Thing like this must’ve set you back a fortune.”

“It was a present. From my parents, after I graduated high school. To replace the one I had before it with a more high tech model.”

“Lucky bastard.” Troy waved his prosthetic. “My dad never put in enough effort to do that kind of shit. Had to take what Pandoran healthcare offered when we came here. I’m saving up for something real state of the art.”

“I’m sorry. About your dad.”

“You can be sorry all you want, but it don’t change things.” He pulled away from Rhys’ arm as if burned. “Now the fucker’s in town. We’ve been avoiding him for years.” 

“That can’t be fun. Why don’t you want to see him? Oh, uh, guess that’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?”

Troy hummed. “That’s getting too personal.”

It was on Rhys’ tongue to point that Troy had been the one to initiate the conversation, that he was the one who’d brought up his father in the first place, but Tyreen was shaking her head and looking over at the pair of them.

“You _really_ don’t want us to take you down that rabbit hole,” she said. “Besides, Troy might start crying. My little bro always gets emotional when he’s high.”

“You’re high right now?” Rhys asked, sounding exasperated over the fact.

“Not yet,” Troy said. “I mean, me and Tyreen smoked up a little before we left the Pony. That doesn’t exactly count.”

“That fungus shit will make him bawl his eyes out, though. You totally need to see it for yourself.” Tyreen checked her watch. “Where the hell is Amara?”

“Ty,” Troy said on a rising note, as if he were about to launch into a whine. Thankfully, he refrained.

“Look, I’ve never done anything like this.” Released from Troy’s grip, Rhys held up his hands, as if warding the twins off. “I think this…this was probably not the most genius idea I’ve had. We obviously have some discrepancies between our definitions of a good time.”

Grabbing up his drink again, Troy tilted his head and nodded. He drained the entirety of the rest of the liquid in the glass and set it down. Almost immediately he was signaling the waitress for a refill.

“Shouldn’t you put that away?” Rhys asked, indicating the baggie.

“Nah. Nobody here’s gonna bother us about it, unless they’re an idiot or a noob.”

“Nobody says noob anymore,” Tyreen said, drawing one leg up onto the couch cushion while she slurped her drink. 

“I do. So, how’d it happen?”

The last was directed at Rhys, who gave him a look etched in puzzlement.

“The arm. How’d you end up losing it?”

“Er, well. That’s a long story.”

Troy made a show of looking around. “Don’t see anyone interrupting us.”

Sighing, Rhys bowed his head slightly. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. “I’m really not comfortable talking about it.”

“Fine. I guess I’ll go first, then. You see, I didn’t actually lose mine. I was born like this. Dad said I was a freak. Still says it.”

“Yup,” Tyreen chimed in. “He’s totally right, too.”

“Shutup.” Troy’s second drink came, again the same orange liquor with the same shot glass full of unidentified sludge. “Now it’s your turn. Come on, Rhys. It’s really no big deal. Ain’t like I’m going to tell anyone.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that. You’re pretty chummy with Jack.”

One of Troy’s bony shoulders heaved in a shrug. “Sure. But I’m more his sounding board and all that shit. Not like we sit there trading gossip. Least not all the time.”

“Alright, alright. You don’t have to twist my….” Rhys trailed off before he could finish, pursing his lips. “Okay. When I was a kid, I…I really looked up to my father. I wanted to be just like him.”

“Least one of us had a good dad,” Troy said, sipping his drink. 

“Yeah. He wasn’t always the best at supporting my goals. Still isn’t. But he did try.” Rubbing the back of his neck with his flesh hand, Rhys eyed one of the Rakk Ales on the table, grabbing for it with his cybernetic. He took a large swig. “One day I got it in my head that I would cook for him instead of vice versa. I was ten years old, maybe. Thought I knew enough about cooking and food prep to pull it off by myself. I was so, _so_ wrong.”

Even Tyreen was invested in the conversation now. She flipped hair out of her eyes and leaned in closer. “What happened?”

“I started a fire. By accident. A bad one. Ended up with third degree burns. Then things got infected. It was either the arm gets amputated, or I’d die.”

“Harsh, dude,” Troy said in a near whisper. “Real harsh. I think I need a little something after that story.”

As Troy reached for the baggie on the table between them, Rhys watched him with quiet anxiousness. Telling Troy, of all people, the story behind his cybernetic had made him feel vulnerable. There were only a few individuals who knew the truth. It brought a sense of foolishness and incompetence forth, though he knew he had only been a child when it happened. He wondered, vaguely, why he had opened his mouth about it at all.

The drug was pulled from the bag, the fungus speckled in dark colors, and Troy shook them out onto his palm. He offered some to his sister, who began to reach for them before shaking her head and drawing away.

“Better not,” she said. “Amara’s coming, and she hates when I’m on shit.”

“Suit yourself,” her brother said and popped a few into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, then looked over at Rhys. Plucking a single fungus up with his prosthetic, he held it out. “Trust me. You look like shit. This’ll help.”

“Thanks,” Rhys said with an edge of affrontement. 

Still, he felt less opposed to the idea this time around, more unwilling to keep putting up a fight. He knew the reasons he really shouldn’t, knew they were sound. Yet every last fiber of his being was screaming at him to take the proffered drug, forget the last twenty-four hours, blow off some steam.

The origins of his cybernetics had been better kept to himself. He was learning just how good of a manipulator Troy Calypso happened to be. It was almost scary, if he thought too hard about it, though the reasons were beyond fathoming. The Calypsos just seemed to have amazing powers of coercion, apparently. As a pair, they were downright deadly when it came to persuasion. 

In the end, Rhys found himself reaching out, taking the offered drug. He twirled it around in his fingers.

“Ya gotta eat it, not absorb it,” Troy told him, his expression all eager smile and eyes that seemed to shine like the stars. “Just pop it in your mouth. Go on.”

And Rhys did just that, trying to drown out the voice of reason currently screaming in his head. Almost immediately he was gagging, holding a hand over his mouth as not to spit the substance out. 

“Yeah, pretty gross at first, right?” Troy asked him. “Don’t worry. Your body will adjust to the taste.”

Rhys continued chewing, forcing himself to work through the unpleasantness of the initial act. After awhile, it didn’t get much better, but it did get easier. Just as Troy said, his body seemed to grow accustomed to the unsavory flavor. He made sure the fungus was a fine pulp before he swallowed it.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait,” Troy folded his arms behind his head and tried to put his long legs up on the table, realizing they weren’t going to fit. “Should take anywhere from a half hour to forty minutes to kick in.”

“That’s…a lot.”

“Yup. Just try and relax. It won’t be as good when it hits you if you’re as tense as you are right now.”

“I’m not tense.”

Looking him over, Tyreen snorted. “You’re tense.”

“Will you stop doing that?”

“What?” the twins said in unison.

“Just—nothing.”

Shutting up, Rhys settled back in his seat. Troy and he shot the shit for a while about work, about their co-workers; about some music mixes Troy was working on, and how Rhys wished he had as good a relationship with his brother Rowan as Troy did with Tyreen. Both twins laughed at that, stating their relationship was a lot rockier than it seemed. They fought a lot, bitched and moaned about each other to their friends. One of which was the bartender August, apparently, who came down to _Corrosion_ with them whenever he got the chance.

Troy was discussing what a loathsome, sniveling shit Hugo Vasquez was and how Jack should just fire him already when two things happened: Amara showed up in a punkish outfit Rhys had never seen her wearing before that was stunningly purple, and the drugs finally kicked in.

It was like time had dilated. One minute the conversation was normal, and so was the **Radiation Pit**. And then it simply shifted into a vector of swirling colors and sounds, Troy’s mouth flapping a mile a minute, the strange grill he wore over his teeth suddenly his most prominent feature. Rhys stared at it as if those metal fangs would act on their own and bite him, realizing with the heavy stone of certainty that he was undoubtedly and thoroughly high. 

“What is wrong with the chef?” Amara asked, waving her hand in front of Rhys’ face. He blinked and reached out, trying to link his fingers with her’s.

“You have big hands,” Rhys blurted out before he could stop himself. “Almost as big as Jack’s.”

“Oh, you know,” Troy said, snickering at the display. “He got into my stash. And so did I.”

As the night wore on, things became a blur, the whirlwind of events spinning around in Rhys’ mind and vision in a tighter and tighter spiral. It eventually swept him up in its confines. Somehow he ended up on the dance floor, feeling light in his head and heart, and light on his feet. In his mind, he was suddenly the best dancer that had ever come to _Corrosion_ , and he had all the perfect moves. Instead of yanking him away before he embarrassed himself, Troy had joined him, and he was a good dancer too, maybe even better. And he was very much shirtless and sweaty, and had gawkers as well. Rhys wasn’t one of them, but he could appreciate someone who commanded others' attention in such a way.

At some point Rhys had retreated into the bathroom, time lost between then and his time on the dance floor as if he had slipped through some trans-dimensional crack. As he stood staring in the mirror, he couldn’t help but laugh at his reflection, which seemed to warp and transform before his eyes. This was the greatest night of his life, and he was positively transcendent, or whatever the hell his mind dared to believe at the moment.

“There you are,” came a voice.

His reflection seemed to shimmer and disappear as Rhys turned his head, squinting at the other person. It was Troy, who looked feral with his pinpoint eyes and manic smile. Those eyes also seemed glassy, as if he’d been crying. Rhys vaguely recalled what Tyreen had mentioned earlier about Troy bawling when he was high and wondered if there was truth to it. 

“Here I am,” he muttered and turned around to lean back against the sink. He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned back. “What have you been up to, mister life-of-the-party?”

“Oh, you know.” Coming closer, Troy leaned his hip on one of the multitude of sinks as well. “Working the room, attempting to get laid. The usual.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“You bet.”

Silence descended as swiftly as if someone had brought a sledgehammer down upon the conversation. Troy shuffled even closer, making Rhys look up at him quizzically. The other man stretched, raising both flesh and prosthetic arms over his head, pectorals and abdominal muscles arching with the effort. 

“Ya know, I bet if Jack were here, he’d really have this party started.”

“Oh, huh?” Rhys asked.

“Though I doubt this stuff is anywhere near his speed. He’s more an upper kinda dude. But I guess you know that already.”

“I—Jack, what? What about him?”

“Just curious.” Reaching out, Troy grabbed Rhys by the shoulder with his flesh hand, patting it. “Jack may have mentioned something about you and him. You guys friends or something?”

“I dunno,” Rhys said. “I don’t think so. There _was_ last night. But who knows with him, really. Hey, what’s with your hair?”

As if self conscious, Troy flipped his hair back. “Nothing wrong with my hair, chef. But, I mean, yeah, you’re right. Guy’s fucking harder to read than Eridian. Which is why I’m asking you and all. Since…last night? You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah, last night. That might’ve been a mistake.”

“And?”

“And I—I wish I’d never let it happen.” 

“Let what happen?”

As if coming out of a trance, Rhys blinked a few times. His mouth dropped open, forming a perfect ‘O’ and hanging there.

“You know….”

“No, I really _don’t_ know. Which is why I’m asking you. Come on, chef boy.” Baring that formidable grill, eyeteeth gleaming in reflective chrome, Troy patted his cheek playfully. “Spill it.”

Rhys pouted and swatted him away, but the drug’s influence seemed to zap his strength, making the gesture futile. 

“Not sure I should. Do you got anymore of that stuff? I think mine’s starting to wear off.”

“Tell you what. I’m a negotiating kind of guy and all, so let’s strike up a deal. You tell me what’s gone down between you and the bossman, and I let you have another go at my personal stash.”

Eyes drooping, Rhys appraised Troy like he would questionable ingredients. Then those eyes fell closed and he arched his neck until he was facing the ceiling. 

“Feels almost like I’m under the sun, on a tropical beach,” he murmured.

“You’re not, dude.”

“Don’t ruin it for me.”

“I’ll ruin it until you answer me.”

“Fine, fine.” Rhys’ eyes opened a crack. He lifted himself back into an upright position. “He, er—shit, damn it.” The chef wet his lips, closing his eyes again, obviously having a rough time getting the words out. “This is hard.” He drew out the last word until he ran out of breath. 

“I’ll wait.”

“We ended up—in the kitchen, last night. It just sort of…I—and now I can’t stop thinking of all the repercussions it’s going to have. While _simultaneously_ having enjoyed it.”

“Not following you. You’ll have to be clearer than that.”

“We fucked.” 

After the words left Rhys’ mouth, he wished immediately that he could take them back. But the drugs were too embedded in his system at that point, had too much influence over him. And the impulses it invoked were hard to tamp down. 

Troy had taken a few steps back and seemed to be reeling. His hand brushed through his hair not unlike someone tweaking out.

“Oh, man, _what_?” he said, sounding distressed. “No way. You’re shitting me.” 

Rhys tried to shrug, but his arms just fell back down to his sides. He could taste sweat beading on his upper lip. His mind felt disjointed from the conversation, floating off somewhere in the vastness of mental space. 

“Jack asked,” Rhys said slowly. “I said yes.”

“Stop. Just stop talking.”

“You wanted to know. What did you…did you think…?”

“Think what?”

“That—oh, god. Give me a second.”

There came the sound of shoes squeaking against cement, cutting through the unnatural flow of the conversation. Rhys had rushed into one of the bathroom stalls, slamming the door.

“The fuck, Rhys? I thought you were gonna tell me—shit, forget it. Stay in there if you want!”

Inside the stall, Rhys almost stumbled in the small space as he slammed down the toilet lid. He squawked at the sound, startled by it, then parked his ass down, cradling his head in his hands.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Rhys said, voice barely audible.

“Ah, come on, dude. You are such a noob at this. Whatever. Just try not to miss the bowl.”

Rhys breathed deeply once. Twice. He had this under control. He could ride this out and not embarrass himself in the process. On the third time he let out a low, pained groan and twisted around. 

Nope, he actually couldn’t. 

Rhys lifted the lid of the toilet back up and bent over the basin.

The entirety of what Rhys had consumed in the last few hours was lost to the porcelain god. Heaving even when there was no more left to give, he thought he heard the door to the bathroom closing. Silence moved in swiftly, penetrated only by the faint thump of music through the walls. Sagging on his knees, Rhys stayed there breathing for a few moments, waves of nausea slowly ebbing. He wiped his mouth and began to push himself upward, stumbling a bit. When he was upright, he cracked the stall door open.

The bathroom was empty, Troy nowhere to be seen. He supposed he should’ve expected that after the salad chef’s poor reaction to what Rhys had revealed. No longer very high, the regret was starting to roll in. He should never have come here to begin with, never asked Troy to hang out. It was just another terrible idea to add to the pile lately.

On his way out of the club, Rhys passed Tyreen and Amara, currently engaged in a slow, more-than-friendly dance. They tried to get his attention by waving him over, but he ignored them, quickening his steps towards the exit.


	15. Chapter 15

In his office, Jack leaned back in his desk chair and appraised the short man sitting opposite him. That short man was Vaughn, who fidgeted and cleared his throat, reaching for the opened briefcase resting on the chair next to him. From it, he removed a stack of papers and set them down on the desk between them.

“Here’s the paperwork for the restaurant’s current budget and finances.” Vaughn shuffled the stack around. “And here, on page five, you have each employee’s listed salary and allocated funds for payroll.”

“Yeah, great,” Jack said dryly. “Get to the point, shortstack.”

Clearing his throat again, Vaughn pushed his glasses up his nose. “One of the problems I came across was that your employee, Troy Calypso’s, salary was…unbalanced compared to the rest of the staff’s. You’re paying him nearly six figures. That has to be an oversight.”

“An oversight on whose part exactly? Mine?”

“Well, yes. Mister Lawrence—”

“Wolfbaine.”

“Right, right, Wolfbaine. That’s not important. What _is_ important here is that we go over all of the kitchen staff’s salaries together. And maybe the two bartenders as well. There’s a steep difference in their pay.”

“I like August’s drink-slinging better. And why pay Hugo the same salary if I know the cocksucker would stay on no matter how I treated him? He appreciates the clout.”

“That is not a good reason, sir.”

“Good enough for me.”

From Vaughn, there came a sigh. He shuffled his stack of papers and eventually took one up in hand, sitting back. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Then he was sliding it across to Jack, his fingers trembling slightly.

“Here’s a sample of the financial plan I came up with for you,” he said, voice wavering. “It lists the suggested salaries for all kitchen staff. Plus I have a spending plan as well. This would help to balance out the restaurant’s finances and hopefully stretch them a bit further. I mean, not that your spending was that bad, sir. But making that credit go the extra mile is essential right now. I see your numbers are on a steady decline.”

Jack snatched the paper from Vaughn. He brought it up to his face, reading over it carefully. “Don’t remind me,” he muttered. “I don’t see how this is any different than my own plan. Remind me again what I’m paying you for?”

“To balance your books and manage your finances. If you’ll look at the salaries summary, you’ll see I’ve adjusted Calypso’s pay to fall beneath the grade of Flynt’s. Flynt is your _sous chef_ , right? He should be in a higher tier. As for Rhys—his pay seems an awful lot for an intern.”

“You try keeping an intern on when your restaurant’s in freefall. If I don’t pay them, they won’t stick around.” 

“Yeah, sure, but that’s way above entry level salary. It may be too late to fix Rhys’ pay, but you might want to utilize my suggestion for anyone new who happens to join you.”

“I doubt anyone new will want to walk through that front door anytime soon. You’d think this place was plague-ridden or somethin’. My dishes are still top notch. Ask any Pony loyalist.”

“I don’t doubt it. But the numbers don’t look great from any perspective. And my magical powers of accounting only go so far.” 

Throwing the paper down on the desk, Jack hummed and rubbed at his face with his hands. The bridge of his noise was taken up in thumb and forefinger, his eyes closing. Vaughn waited where he sat, looking on at the scene without outright staring. He waited patiently for the other man to start speaking again, and when he sighed and stood up instead, he was a little thrown off. Jack walked over to the one window in the office, peering out of it. Then he turned around again, stalking back to his desk. His hands came slamming down on top of it, Vaughn jumping up in his seat and nearly falling off. His mouth opened to speak, but he never got the chance to get the words out. 

There was a knock at the door. Jack’s eyes narrowed at it. 

“Yeah, who is it?” he said, his voice guttural.

“Rhys,” came the voice from the other side of the door. 

Almost immediately, Jack’s demeanor softened. He cleared his throat and shifted backwards until his legs were hitting his chair. Promptly he fell back into it, slumping against the cushion.

“Come on in.”

The door creaked open a crack. Even through that sliver, both men could tell that Rhys looked like hell. He hadn’t shaved, his face was haggard, his hair limp and in disarray despite having been styled with gel. The veins in his eyes stood out, making them bloodshot, the look in them glassy.

“Holy shit,” Jack remarked, his own eyes widening at the sight of the other man. “The fuck happen to you, kid?”

Mimicking Jack’s expression, Vaughn nearly got up out of his seat. “Whoa there, bro. Are you okay? Haven’t seen you looking that bad in _ages_.”

“Thanks,” Rhys said dryly, shooting Vaughn a look as he stepped into the room. He scratched at the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dropping his gaze to the carpeted floor. “I had kind of a rough night. Don’t really want to talk about it.” 

“I’ll say.” Jack snorted. “Looks like you were partying like a rock star. You start hangin’ out with Calypso or somethin’ lately?”

Snapping his head up, Rhys looked sharply at Jack, his expression twisting into one of shock. He tried to wipe the look off his face, tried to eradicate it before Jack could catch on. But Jack’s demeanor was already starting to undergo a metamorphosis. He shifted from gentle disbelief to a look of accusation in so short a timespan that Rhys almost got whiplash.

“Please tell me you didn’t,” Jack said in a deadpan. 

“Can we not discuss this now?” Rhys protested. “My head’s pounding, and I didn’t get an ounce of sleep last night. Besides, it’s got nothing to do with _The Diamond Pony_.”

“Say’s you. And, last I checked, you ain’t the one running this joint.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest and half parked his ass on the desk. “So, yeah, what goes on between _my_ employees, even after hours, has everything to do with _my_ restaurant.”

“It can wait. Trust me. Troy didn’t show up this morning. No call, no show. Zane doesn’t have anybody on salads.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? God fucking dammit. I’m gonna kill that kid.”

“Please don’t. As much as I’d love to see him go, I’d rather it not be because my boss went on a murderous rampage and killed him.”

“Very funny.” Nearly launching himself off the desk, Jack pushed past Vaughn, closing the distance between him and Rhys. “I’ll call him, see what’s up. If I end up having to go over to his apartment and dragging him here myself, then I will.”

“No, please don’t do that,” Rhys protested. “I…the restaurant doesn’t need that.”

Jack huffed, ignoring the request. “In the meantime, you’re on salads. I already know you’re good at that, so at least that’s some peace of mind.”

“But whose going to help out Athena? I mean, she’s usually got it covered, but if we get put in the weeds, we’re going to need another _chef de partie_. You can’t put me on salads if you’re not coming out there yourself.”

“Rhysie, Rhysie. You know how long I’ve been operating this place? Fifteen freakin’ years. We don’t need another _chef de partie_ or a _chef de cuisine_. This restaurant practically runs itself.”

From where he sat, Vaughn cleared his throat, but nobody paid him any attention.

“Good to know, I guess,” Rhys muttered, seeing that it was becoming more futile to argue as time went on. Jack was as stubborn as a bullymong with a sore tooth, and just as cranky. 

“ _Great_ to know,” Jack corrected him. “Now, I don’t care how shitty you’re feeling. Drink some water, take some effervescent tabs. They’re in my desk drawer, if you need them. You’ll feel right as rain.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“They’ve gotten me through more nights at this restaurant than you can count on those half-robotic fingers of yours. Trust me.”

“Ah, thanks for reminding me that I’ve got this huge hunk of metal attached to my body, Jack.” 

Without warning, Jack leaned in. His lips were on Rhys’ before the younger man could protest. Vaughn let out a squawk from across the room, apparently scandalized by the display, if the shrillness of the noise was anything to go by.

“Rhys, is that why your salary’s so high?” he let out awkwardly, clearly not thinking about his words before he spoke. “You’re sleeping with the boss?”

“What? No!” Rhys protested, responding out of instinct rather than rational thought. He took an exasperated breath and corrected himself. “At least not the way that you’re thinking.”

“Bro, this is crazy!”

“And it doesn’t concern you, shortstack,” Jack butted in. “So I advise you to shut your trap and mind your own business.”

“Alright. Shutting up now.”

Rhys rolled his eyes and stepped away from Jack, heading for the office door. “Don’t listen to him, Vaughn. He isn’t your boss.”

“Technically, I kinda am,” Jack said as he moved to grab his leather jacket from the coat rack. “I did hire him to be my personal accountant.”

“He’s right,” Vaughn said with a shrug towards Rhys.

His friend was shaking his head. “I need to get back to the kitchen. I’ll handle salads, but you better straighten out the rest of this, Jack. If I can come into work feeling like total ass, so can Troy. And if you can’t get him, then you better be prepared to take over, at least for a little bit.”

“I thought you didn’t want him here a minute ago?” Jack said as he slid his arm into a sleeve. “ _The restaurant doesn’t need that_ , and all that jazz. And since when do you give me orders? Last time I checked, _I_ was the executive chef around this place, not some upstart Strongfork.”

“Since you decided that sitting in your office moping during work hours is time well spent. And since, apparently after what I found out last night, doing _hardcore street drugs_ is more important than running your damn business.”

“So I like to indulge a little. So what? It keeps me from losing my fucking mind at this place everyday, on top of all the shit I’m dealing with constantly otherwise. You don’t know the half of it, Rhys.”

“So it’s true, then.” From Rhys came a sigh. His pale lips twisted thoughtfully. “It’s not like you’d tell me anything, anyway.”

“I don’t think I should be here for this conversation,” Vaughn remarked, standing up from his seat.

“Sit down, shortstack,” Jack told him. “You’ve still got work to do.”

“I think I’d rather do it outside. In the dining room, where it’s safer.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

Gathering up his paperwork and briefcase, Vaughn made quick work of organizing it all. As he walked past Rhys, his features were etched in wariness. “Be safe,” he said, sounding uncertain.

“I’ll be fine,” Rhys told him, then looked at Jack, repeating his sentiment. “You better fix this. I’m in no mood to deal with the shit this place throws at me daily today. Starting with deadbeat salad chefs.”

“Fine, fine. I’m dealing with it. Tell Zane I stepped out for a moment. Make sure Tim doesn’t get it in his head that he can handle kitchen work while I’m gone. The usual bullshit. Think you can handle that, princess?”

“Think _you_ can handle Troy?”

“Fair.” Foregoing zipping up his jacket, Jack came over an gave Rhys a pat on the back. “Keep this place together for me. I’ll be back before you can burn something.”

“With the way my day is going so far, I somehow doubt that.”

From Jack, a chuckle. “If you do, you’ll have hell to pay.”

“Figured that.”

Stepping around Rhys, Jack didn’t say another word. He opened the door and slipped out, leaving Rhys to ponder the situation on his lonesome. After Rhys had counted slowly to ten, desperate not to start losing his mind, he turned and walked out the door himself. 

The kitchen greeted him again. Despite his disposition at the moment, he greeted it back with as much fondness as he could muster in his compromised state, eager to throw himself back into his work.

XXX

Outside Troy’s apartment, which was surprisingly clean in comparison to what lay beyond it, Jack leaned against the wall and fished out his Echo. He’d already knocked a few times and shouted through the door. He knew the fucker was home. He could hear someone shifting around inside the apartment, and it likely wasn’t his sister, Tyreen. Jack’s next option was to call him with the hopes that he picked up, which he was in the midst of. He dialed the number, listening to it ring. From somewhere inside the apartment, he heard Troy’s ringtone going off. It went on for a few seconds, then died to silence. The voicemail picked up for Jack and he promptly hung up. He was quickly losing his patience. Once he got a hold of Troy, he was going to chew him out. That or worse, when they happened to finally meet again in person. Though getting into a fight with someone fifteen years younger than he was probably wasn’t the brightest idea. And despite his gangly appearance, Troy could throw a mean left hook. Even if Jack was physically superior in almost every way, in his own humble opinion, there was no doubt he’d be risking getting his ass handed to him.

He grunted, cycling through the phone numbers on his phone. Eventually he came to the one that he knew was for Troy’s burner. Using the app on his Echo to spoof his number, he dialed it, waiting with growing annoyance as each ring cycled through. 

Finally, on what would have been the last ring, Troy picked up.

“Y’ello,” came his deadpan answer.

“Don’t hang up or I’ll bust in and strangle ya.”

Silence on the other end. 

“Let me in the apartment,” Jack said, rapping on the door again for good measure.

“G’way, Jack.” Troy sounded just as haggard as Rhys had looked. “I’m not in the mood for your shit today.”

“So you don’t show up for work, don’t even call to say you’re not coming in?”

“Like I need to. I’m just the salad chef.”

“Yeah, well, believe it or not, that’s kind of important. So, if you’re decent, why don’t you go on ahead and open up this door?”

“Nuh uh. Fuck off. You’re not coming in here.”

“Do I have to break the fucking door down?”

“Come on, man. I don’t need the landlord riding me and Tyreen’s asses.”

“Then open up, godammit.”

There was a click. Jack realized Troy had hung up on him. Just when he was about to smash the Echo against the wall in rage, he heard the telltale sign of tumblers and chain locks being released. The apartment door opened with a creak, Troy standing there in baggy sleep pants and nothing else. He motioned to Jack with his prosthetic.

“Get in here before I have to deal with my nosy neighbors.”

There wasn’t any protest from Jack, which was a good thing for Troy. He stepped over the threshold with barely a grunt, the salad chef closing and locking the door behind him.

“You wanna talk?” Troy asked him, stepping into the attached kitchen. He was apparently in the middle of frying something up, oil set out on the counter and a wok on the stove top. “Then go ahead and talk.”

It was easy for Jack to follow his nose. The aroma of cooked oil and searing meat guided him. “What are ya making?” he asked.

“Hangover food. Pork fried rice with spring onion and scrambled egg.”

“So, you’re hungover, is that it?”

“Nah,” Troy told him, turning away from the stove after stirring the pork in the wok. “Wish I was. Probably can’t say the same about your little kitchen butt buddy.”

“Excuse me?” There was a small table for two in the kitchen. Jack sat down in one of the seats. 

“You heard me fine.” Removing two deep bowls from the cupboard that would have typically been overhead but were eye-level for Troy, he set them down on the counter. “But, if you need elaboration: Rhys, your new fuckboy.” 

“He isn’t—did he actually tell you that himself?”

“He kinda spilled a whole mess of baggage last night. But, hey, I might’ve prodded him for info a bit too much. Both our faults, really.”

“For…?

“Me knowing exactly what’s going on between you and him.”

For a long time, Jack sat in silence. He stared down at the tabletop, finding a place where the wood was chipped with his fingernail and scratching at it, making the furrow deeper. At the counter, Troy cracked open two eggs and let them cook a bit, then pushed them to the side and opened the nearby rice cooker. He scooped its contents into the wok and promptly doused it in soy sauce.

“You’re pretty calm about it all,” Jack remarked. “Then again, guess you’re not really in a position where you’d care much, being on the lower end of the totem.”

It was Troy’s turn to show a flare of temper. “Excuse me?” he said, turning around to face Jack. “Care to insult me in my own home again?”

“Relax. I wasn’t _trying_ to insult you. So if I did, well, just suck it up, ‘kay?”

“Great advice there. Would you talk to your precious golden calf like that?”

“Whoa, hey, kiddo. You are _way_ out of line. I’m your freakin’ boss here. And I know you gotta problem with Rhys, but he ain’t no _golden calf_ or whatever. I don’t fuckin’ bow down in worship to anyone who steps foot into _my_ kitchen, and you know it. Rhys is an opportunity. Cut me some slack. I’m on the rebound. In another half a year, he won’t even be around anymore.”

“And what if he stays on? What then?”

“He won’t. Kid’s got some real raw talent that I haven’t seen in years. He’s more a fool than you are if he decides to stick with the Pony.” At Troy’s scathing look, Jack added, “Why you care, anyway?”

The salad chef went back to his cooking. He poured rice into the two bowls, then sliced the spring onion on a cutting board to sprinkle on top. When he didn’t answer, Jack felt the familiar flicker of annoyance begin to eat at him. 

“I asked you a question,” Jack said with more emphasis. “Don’t ignore me, cupcake.”

“Fuck you,” Troy said in a tone that dripped with bitterness. “You’re so fucking clueless. Maybe if you stopped liquefying your brains with that nose candy for a fucking minute, you’d realize some shit.”

“What?” Jack seemed genuinely confused, his tone more puzzled than angry. “Pot meet kettle. You do that shit too.”

“Not half as much as you do. You’re so far down the rabbit hole, Jack, that I don’t think anybody’s _ever_ going to be able to pull your ass out. Get yourself some goddam help.” Taking up a bowl in first his flesh hand then prosthetic, Troy set each one down carefully on the table and grabbed some plastic sporks from a drawer. “But that’s not even my point.”

“Yeah, can we get to that? Cos I’m so tired of this goddam bullshit already. You’re just dancing around the issues here.”

“Fine. Guess I’ll just….” Shrugging, Troy sat down and picked up his spork. He shoveled a heaping helping of fried rice into his mouth, speaking around it. “I…I’m…you know.”

“I most definitely _don’t_ know, and if you keep stuttering like that, I’m _never_ going to know,” Jack said as he ate his own rice. “Hey, this is pretty good, for an amateur cook.”

Troy’s cheeks burned a brilliant red. He groaned and flipped his hair out of his eyes. “I’m jealous.”

“Of me? So, you actually like Rhys? As in _like_ like. Didn’t know you swung that way, kiddo. Can’t say I’m shocked, though. You do give off that vibe.”

“No, numbnuts. I do. I mean, not of you. I don’t like—I like _you_.”

The spork fell against Jack’s plate with a plastic clatter. Then he shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. “Say _what_?”

Shoveling more rice in his mouth, Troy made sure he didn’t have to speak right away. His face continued to glow as if he’d gotten into his sibling’s blush and applied a liberal amount. He propped his elbows on the table and shoved his face into his hands, growling to himself.

“Guess I never realized before now.” His hands were drawn away from his face so that he could let out a bitter laugh. “Fuck, Tyreen’s right about me. I’m a pathetic loser.”

Jack inclined his head, gazing down his nose at Troy. “I wouldn’t say that exactly.” The head chef was surprised at the conviction in his own words. He picked up his spork and began eating again. “I mean, there’s a reason the press gave me the moniker _Handsome Jack_ once upon a time. Most people have a hard time resisting me. It’s not like you can probably help it.”

“It’s all fucked up, Jack. You’re like…I dunno, the dad figure in my life. The one who never called me a goddam _freak_ or looked at me like he thought I was better off dead. I can’t _like_ you. It shouldn’t work that way.”

“Yeah, um, it sounds like you might have some issues there. Maybe something like this much.” Gesturing with his hands, Jack held them out wide apart and mimed an excessive quantity. “You should probably talk to someone of a more professional nature about it. Just saying.”

But Troy was shaking his head. “You don’t understand. Last night shouldn’t have ever happened. I was just fucking stupid. I wanna forget all about it.”

“Already forgotten. I won’t forgive you for it as easily. Don’t expect that kinda shit from me. But, far as I’m concerned, you’re off the hook for whatever transgressions you think you made.”

“Bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“You coming into fucking work already or what, asshole?”

The last of the rice on Troy’s plate was scooped up. “I just confessed a whole, fucked up mess of mental run-off to you, and _that’s_ how you respond?”

“Kid, I don’t give a shit about your pathos. Never have, never will. We all got fucking baggage at the Pony. I’ve got an ex-assassin and a goddam robot on my staff. You think you’re weird, fucked-up, daddy fantasies are gonna deter me or get me to fire you? Fucking never. The only way you’re getting axed is if you very obviously try to kill me or somethin’ dumb like that. Which, by the way, has happened at least once.” Taking out his cigarette case, Jack slipped one into his mouth and lit up. “So, if you’re not gonna pull that kinda shit, finish your food, get your ass up off that chair, wash the drug stench off your filthy body, get fuckin’ dressed, and get your ass in my kitchen.”

The look on Troy’s face was of someone who’d just been suckerpunched. He munched on the last of his rice with bovine vacancy, swallowing it down thickly.

“Don’t gimme that dumdum expression, either,” Jack added with a drag from his cigarette. “Did you really think I was gonna have a conniption cos you had feelings for me?”

“Yeah. You know, cos of Rhys—”

“Like I said, you’re gonna be in my kitchen long after he’s gone. And I’m not saying there’s a chance of anything. Cos there’s not. Sorry, sweetcheeks, you’re not really my type. That, and I think you’ve got a bit of a complex you need to work through. But, hey, you’re always gonna be my partner in crime. Maybe one day you’ll even make it all the way to _sous chef_.”

“You really mean that, or are you just sweet talking me?” Troy asked, standing up.

“I mean it.” Jack stood as well, taking in another deep lungful of smoke as he walked into the living room and plopped himself down on the couch there, the cushions piled high with laundry and paraphernalia. He pushed most of it aside. “The way things are going, Flynt’s bound to retire some day soon. You can obviously cook. You just need a bit of training, which I’d be willing to give.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Don’t, or the offer’s no longer in good standing.”

“Sure thing. Can I bum a smoke?”

“Get ya own. Knowing you, you probably have plenty.”

From Troy, a shrug. He walked off, then, heading for the bathroom.

Jack scowled and looked around. There was a plastic baggie on the floor, which he perked up upon seeing. Then he realized it was torn and empty, which soured him again. As time crawled slowly onward, a tablet still sitting on the cushion next to him caught his eye. He picked it up, scrolling through a few of the news articles until he came to the dining and entertainment section. There, at the top of the column, was the name _The Diamond Pony_ next to a single star. Or, upon closer inspection, not even the whole star. Only half of the shape was filled in.

The scale system counted up to four stars. Four was the best of the best, one the lowest of the bottom feeders.

Katagawa and Aurelia had ranked his restaurant even further below that. And it wasn’t even at least _no_ stars. They had to go the extra mile to insult him by granting him that meager half star.

Jack threw down the tablet without reading the article.

“Son of a bitch,” he said aloud.

When Troy was finished showering and dressing, he sauntered back into the living room, finding his kitchen shoes and slipping them on. He noticed Jack sitting on the couch, just staring into space. 

“You okay there?” he asked, somewhat concerned by the man’s statuesque nature.

“Peachy keen, kiddo.” He sounded far from it. Shifting his ass off the couch, he moved to the front door. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s get out of here. I’ve got an emergency meeting to call at the restaurant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the drama has unfolded, it's time for some smut once more. Next chapter is definitely spicier than the last few. I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MorteAmore) and [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/Morteamore)


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